All the king's horses, All the king's men
by Lost Gallifrey
Summary: What if Shepard hadn't got to Omega on time? Archangel falls to the collective might of Omega's mercenary groups, and Shepard makes a discovery on the Purgatory station that changes everything.
1. Chapter 1

_ This story began as a kinkmeme fill. It took on a life of its own and turned into a far lengthier story than I had ever intended. I had a lot of amazing, encouraging readers (hopefully some of whom will follow AtKH-AtKM to it's conclusion here) who were very helpful in keeping the various threads of content together. A lot of the chapters will be familiar, although I have been editing and (hopefully) catching all the little mistakes that I found in the meme-posts.__For some reason I can't seem to get things to post onto LJ anymore, so I decided to post here. _

_ I do have to put a warning up for content: This story can be very cruel. I can promise that the content is there to enforce plot points, not to be pointlessly gratuitous, but it is there. The following will contain depictions and descriptions of torture, rape and graphic violence. _

**_Where it all began..._**

The first thing Shepard noticed in the ruined apartment, was the thick tang of decomp and blood. It hung over the rubble like a shroud, lingering thick and heavy on her tongue despite the air filters running in her helmet. On the Citadel, a scene like this would have been cordoned off and sterilized, combed over for evidence, sprayed with cleansers and deodorizers; but here on Omega, the dead were left where they fell. The most they could hope for was to have possessions, armor and weaponry looted by those they had called companions or friends.

The floor was slick with a sheen of water in places, where heavy caliber rounds had chewed through the water lines concealed in the walls. Shepard ran a gloved finger over the pockmarks, 'artillery canon' she thought with a shake of her head, this Archangel must have been one tough son of a bitch if the mercs had brought in a gunship to bring him down.

There was little else to see in the building. Shattered doors on the lower levels led through into a network of abandoned garages and storage areas, a pile of stripped and decomposing vorcha yielded nothing but a cloying reek strong enough to make Shepard gag. In the main, upper rooms the gunship damage was worse, with storage crates, furniture and walls reduced to a scattering of shattered rubble. A warped, overheated sniper rifle lay next to an expansive slick of blood smeared across the filthy floor, dried now to a near black in the dim lighting.

Looking around at the devastation, Shepard felt a slight pang of regret for the faceless vigilante who had fallen here. Eyeing the drag marks in the blood stains on the floor, she hopes faintly that this Archangel had been dead before the mercs took him.

On the bridge below the shattered windows, Miranda waves up at Shepard, a look of bored impatience stamped on her perfect features. Grunt seemed content enough with the delay, kicking pieces of broken masonry loose from the bridge and booting them over the edge, watching them tumble down into the lower levels with a guttural bark of childlike amusement. Shepard wonders for a moment how things would have ended if she had made the decision to come to Omega immediately, as Miranda had suggested; wonders if this idealistic vigilante would have still died in this filthy wreck of an apartment if she hadn't decided that Okeer's elusive knowledge was a priority. She hopes that this 'Doctor Solus' has managed to keep himself alive at least, that this whole Omega detour hasn't been a colossal waste of time.

"Well," Shepard muttered, casting a last look over the blood spattered ruins, " I hope it was quick, whoever you were, you poor, stupid bastard." Feeling somewhat foolish, she sketches a quick salute to the empty room as she leaves, boots ringing hollowly through the silence.


	2. Welcome to Purgatory

Purgatory, Shepard had decided, needed to be renamed. The term 'purgatory' suggested a place you might one day escape, there was no escape from this...hellish arse-hole of the known galaxy. Gritting her teeth in restrained frustration, Shepard listened to the self appointed 'Warden' Kuril harp on about the galactic benefits of his facility, and the benefits to his pocket by extorting the homeworlds of his prisoners.

'Yes, yes, you self aggrandizing moron, just get on with it' Shepard thought to herself, as Kuril explained his penchant for spacing random victims to maintain order. The biotic they were here to pick up had better be worth the trouble it was taking to procure her, she scowled to herself, or Shepard was going to come back and jamb the muzzle of her shotgun right up the warden's left nostril.

"We already have Jack out of cryo," Kuril gestured down the hallway with a casual talon, "my medical team is currently prepping her for transfer. As soon as I have ascertained that your credit transfer is genuine, she will be brought to the docking area." Kuril blandly ignored the furious stare from Miranda at the suggestion that the Cerberus funds were circumspect, "feel free to tour the facility in the meantime if you wish, commander." The gold eyed turain gave them a sharp nod, a smug expression of greed flickering across his craggy, unmarked face. Shepard vaguely remembered Garrus explaining that, socially, turians without the colonial face markings were viewed as untrustworthy. First Saren, now this clown...yes, if ever there was a shining example of that particular stereotype at work it was Warden Kuril.

Wandering the halls of a super-max penitentiary was about as exciting as Shepard had thought it was going to be. Endless lines of cells, well stocked with an assortment of criminals: from the wild eyed and insane, to some who looked so lost and confused Shepard had to wonder what they had done to end up here. Grunt seemed to be getting some kind of perverse enjoyment out of the whole thing though, he was currently watching a fight between two inmates, bouncing a little on his toes and smashing his fists together with all the enthusiasm of a human kid at a carnival. Eventually a guard roughly separated the combatants with a well placed baton, and Grunt grumbled a sullen complaint, stumping away to look for more 'entertainment.'

With a bored sigh Shepard wandered after the young krogan, finding him standing next to a helmeted turian, practically vibrating with deranged glee at whatever was going in the glass fronted cell he was facing. Shepard could hear the rhythmic impacts before she reached the cell, and wasn't terribly surprised (once she had shoved Grunt's considerable bulk out of the way enough to see) to be an unwilling witness to a brutal interrogation. Or at least she had assumed it was an interrogation, but after a few moments it became apparent that there were no questions being asked.

The turian being beaten was curled up on his side, left arm flung across his face in an attempt to shield it from his tormentor; as the guard in question rained blows down with a weighted baton. Turians were a generally slender race, but even from this side of the glass Shepard could tell the prisoner was at near starvation weight, the ridges of bone down his spine standing out in sharp relief. His right arm flopped limply with each blow, and through what looked like the tattered remains of combat under-armor weave, Shepard could see the protruding bones and twisted plates in a ruined shoulder. The damage looked to continue up his neck and across his face, but it was hard to tell with his emaciated left arm raised to protect himself.

Wincing as the guard in the cell brought the baton down across the turian's sensitive fringe, Shepard turned to the helmeted blue-suns merc who stood impassively watching the proceedings. "Is this really necessary," she hissed, surprised at herself by how bothered she was. It wasn't like she hadn't borne witness, and participated in, countless interrogations before; perhaps it was the fact there were no questions, just this pointless silent brutality.

"Warden Kuril's orders," the guard muttered with a shrug, "its not like we're doing it for fun." He shifted his weight uncomfortably under Shepard's heated gaze, "well, Decker may well enjoy it," he tilted his helmeted head in the direction of the guard in the cell, "a little too much actually."

The aforementioned Decker had apparently moved on to a different technique, whatever it was caused the prisoner to voice a horrible wet scream that trailed off into a shrill keen of torment. "All right Decker, that's enough for today," the helmeted guard waved the other out of the cell, "I'm not sure I can watch that again anyway," he muttered under his breath.

As the glass door slid back to release the guard, he strode forward, grizzled saturnine face set in a scowl of displeasure. "Whats your fucking problem Tarkus, I was just getting started!" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the shivering prisoner, "don't tell me you're having some kind of twisted cuttlebone sympathy for this pile of varren shit?"

"Actually," Shepard interrupted coldly, "I wanted to inquire what exactly this...truly intimidating convict has done that deserves your attention. Surely a strong specimen such as yourself," her voice was rich with sarcasm, " could at least pick on someone who could fight back."

Decker have a kind of snort, scrubbing away the sweat on his forehead, a smirk curling his thin lips. "That," he gestured dramatically to the turian in the cell, who had managed to scrabble to a corner, and was hunched into it, head resting on his bony knees. "That is the great and fearsome Archangel, scourge of Omega."

"What?" Shepard managed, in a slightly strangled voice, "I thought he was dead."

"Nah, he just wishes he was. Isn't that right, ugly?!" Decker reached over to rap the bloody baton against the glass, snickering as the turian prisoner flinched, hunching down further. "The merc groups had some fun with him for a while, then Tarak had him shipped up here about six weeks ago. Warden Kuril gets us to treat him real special," Decker leered over at Shepard, hitching pointedly at the crotch of his fatigues, "if you get what I mean."

Miranda made a wordless sound of disgust, and Shepard felt a roil of sickness in her gut. "Oh I'm sorry, you poor bastard," she whispered to softly for Decker to hear. Guilt flickered through her as she remembered the ruined apartment back on Omega "you really would have been better off dead."

Oblivious to the disgust of his audience, Decker continued. "Yeah, funny thing is, we all figured he'd be some hotshot general, what with the way he had half of Omega pissing themselves." With a wheezing laugh, Decker leaned his hip against the cell door, "turns out he's just some stupid kid from the Citadel, thought he was pretty tough too...well until Garm had him a few days anyway.

That krogan really doesn't think too much of uppity cops fucking with his business"

"He's a cop?" a slow coil of dread was uncurling in Shepard's brain, rawly ugly puzzle pieces starting to slide into place.

"Ex-C-Sec apparently," Decker shrugged, "Kuril says his Daddy was some high-up detective; he's been posting rewards all over the extranet for news on his kid. Ain't that sweet?" the merc scrubbed dark navy blood off the baton onto a sleeve patterned with similar stains. "Warden had us cut one of those head spike things off and send it to his Da," Decker mimicked the sweep of a turian fringe with one hand, "never heard anyone scream like he did when we cut him."

The red cybernetics in Shepard's half healed skin felt burning hot, a sharp contrast to the cold sickness spreading through her. Stepping forward she tapped sharply on the filthy glass of the cell, "hey" she rasped, getting no reaction; "hey, HEY" she banged the heel of her hand hard against the barrier.

With a slight swagger, Decker turned to slam the baton against the glass, "Oi ugly! The lady apparently wants a look at your pretty face, head up." When the turian hunched his face harder against his knees, the merc's voice turned coldly ugly, " I said head up, cuttlebone, else I have to come in there, and then we got a real problem."

As the turian jerkily raised his head, turning his face towards her, Shepard had a brief moment when she honestly thought her hunch had been wrong. The last she had seen of Garrus was him waving from the Citadel dock, pale eyes bright, mandibles flared in that distinctive, sharp toothed, turian smile that had taken such a long time to get used to. This turian prisoner had dull dead eyes, one half of his face was a chewed up mess of burns, twisted flesh, and the dull gleam of exposed bone. The mandible on the damaged side flopped loosely against his jaw, that coupled with the sheared off spine of his fringe served to give his thin face an oddly lopsided appearance. But even through the injuries and gore, the sweep of his navy blue facial tattoos was unmistakeable, the dull haze of his eyes was still pale blue, the damaged plating and hide a familiar blend of silver-grey and tan.

"Oh fuck" Shepard tilts her head to rest her forehead against the filthy, stained glass, ..."Garrus."


	3. Blood money

"I want to talk to Warden Kuril," Shepard's voice came out choked and muffled, her head still resting against the barrier glass.

Managing to misread her reaction completely, Decker clapped Shepard roughly on the shoulder, "so you want a piece of him too eh?" He grinned, showing a none too impressive array of stained teeth. "Not sure what good he's gonna be for you though, he's so fucked in the head he probably wont know what to do with pussy," the merc gave a suggestive twitch of his hips, "I don't have the same problem, if you get me."

Something in Shepard's stony eyes made Decker take a nervous step back, as she turned her red tinged gaze in his direction. "Open your mouth again, I'm going to fill it with an incendiary grenade," she clenched her hands, struggling with the urge to kill the foul guard where he stood as a sick fury built through her, "now, go get Kuril, we have business to discuss."

Obviously disturbed by Shepard's furious, crimson tinted gaze, Decker made a frustrating show of slowly clipping the baton to his belt and wandering off down the corridor at a maddeningly sedate pace. A last scrap of arrogant defiance in the face of overwhelming odds.

"Commander, what's going.." Miranda's query died unfinished as Shepard raised a gloved hand.

"Open this", Shepard rapped her knuckles against the cell door, her eyes lighting on the turian guard whom Decker had called 'Tarkus'. "Now" she grated when he hesitated. Swinging his head back and forth between the obviously enraged Shepard, and Grunt, who, now that the violence had ceased, was looking dangerously bored, stomping his feet and shifting his grip on his heavy custom shotgun, the merc tapped out a sequence on his omnitool, stepping back as the barrier slid aside with a heavy click.

"Garrus" Shepard half whispered, sinking carefully to her knees in front of the cringing turian, "hey Garrus, its Shepard." For a moment she honestly expected him to raise his head and twitch that one good mandible into the smirk that had always made her laugh; maybe snark something about how she had taken her time, that he was cold, that he needed a mirror...anything. Instead he didn't even stir, no reaction to her voice at all. Being careful to avoid the horrific damage to the right side of his face Shepard reached out to gently cup his jaw, rubbing a thumb over the symmetrical colonial markings on his undamaged mandible; flinching when he jerked back from her touch, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his head back to expose his throat in a terribly turian gesture of submission.

"Hey, no, no don't do that," Shepard feels a surge of hot anger, all she can hope is that she will get some quality alone time with whoever schooled that reaction into him. "Its me, come on Garrus...its me, its Shepard."

Garrus' eyes flutter half open, dead, flat gaze fixed wearily on something over her head. "Dead," he rasps softly, vocal harmonics slurred without the use of his burned mandible, "you're dead...leave me alone...please, I deserve this." His voice dies away into a horrible gut wrenching keen that makes the hair on Shepard's neck stand up. Shocked to silence she stares numbly as Garrus tips the good side of his face against the wall, "you burned, you left...and you burned...they said you burned, and you...you, you were just gone; and I deserve this."

"Garrus?" Shepard looked up as Miranda stared down at them from the doorway, "as in Garrus Vakarian, from your team on the original Normandy?" Shepard almost can't stand to look at the pity and horror stamped on that exquisite face.

"Yeah, this is Garrus, you know... the same Garrus your boss said had disappeared," the bitterness in her voice makes Miranda jerk back.

"You can't possibly think he had anything to do with this?" Miranda looks genuinely shocked at the suggestion, "what possible purpose would we have in sending him here?"

"I thought that was the Cerberus manifesto, the subjugation of aliens," Shepard is well aware she is being petty, but she cant find it within herself to care about her unreasonable assumptions of Cerberus involvement.

Miranda opens her mouth to answer, but seems to think better of it, pursing her lips into a thin line as she steps back from the cell. The sharp echo of footsteps approaching makes Shepard ease slowly to her feet.

"Ah, Shepard," Warden Kuril's mandibles are quirked in a self-satisfied smirk as he strolls casually into view, "I see you've found my new toy." At the sound of the Warden's flanged rumbling voice, Garrus gives an almost convulsive jerk, a low strangled moan rattling in his throat, the tormented sound hitting Shepard in the gut like a concussive round.

"What's your price," Shepard grates out, hating herself for even having to consider making this a monetary transaction, but what they can't afford right now is to start a war in the facility. Its obvious that Kuril doesn't have a scrap of kindness to appeal to, but Shepard hopes that greed might just turn the tables in her favor.

"By the hour, or would you like a bit longer than that?" Kuril taps a mocking talon against his chin, as a reappeared Decker barks a laugh at the quip. Seeing that Shepard wasn't even going to respond to that, Kuril shrugs, "so you want to rescue your former crewmate, how sweet...but I seriously doubt you have the credits to make that transaction appealing to me. You see I'm rather attached to this prisoner." The warden lopes a few more steps into the cell, "I had some good friends on Omega, I like to keep reminding Archangel here that I tend to take their deaths somewhat personally."

Garrus starts to shake as Kuril gets closer, his eyes going blind in a haze of panic. The Warden cups a talon under his prisoner's chin, tilting Garrus' head back in a sickening imitation of intimacy. "Yes, I would hate to part with this one." He relaxes his hand, and Garrus doesn't move. Shepard can see the muscles in his neck shivering with the effort of keeping his head in the exact place Kuril left it.

"Twenty thousand" Shepard offers, and feeling sickly guilty she gestures at Garrus. "Its a good deal, he cant possibly last that much longer, he's more than half dead already."

"Sixty thousand," Kuril twitches his mandibles higher into an all out grin, as Miranda makes a wordless sound of protest at the price.

"Forty." Shepard clenches her jaw, after the fee for Jack the Normandy account was just below fifty-thousand, she could only hope that she could bargain Kuril to the lower price. "And two hundred units of element zero" she added, seeing the Warden's eyes flicker with greed at the offer

The Warden deliberates for a long tense moment, sharp eyed gaze flickering between Shepard, and the hunched prisoner at her feet. "Fine," he eventually shrugs dismissively, "Decker, do prep Shepard's new acquisition for transport will you; Miss Lawson will come with me to see that your half of the bargain is transferred correctly." Kuril swept his arm across Miranda's shoulders, ignoring the look of revulsion on her face as he propelled her away down the hallway. Staring off after them, Shepard felt a flash of gratitude for Miranda's silent restraint, and the Cerberus operative's acceptance of Shepard's rash appropriation of a majority of the Normandy's funds.

Shoving roughly past her, Decker grabbed Garrus by his broken shoulder. Frustrated at being thwarted and overruled the merc coldly pulled the arm back sharply, making the turian twist forward to avoid the agony of the cruel torque on the mangled joint. Before Shepard could protest, the guard pressed a small device to the back of Garrus' neck, and a half second later Shepard heard the sharp snap as the neural stunner discharged. Garrus went instantly limp in Decker's grasp, and the grizzled merc fisted a hand into the tattered remains of his shirt and hauled the slack form out past the cell door, pitching him onto the hall floor with a dull thud.

"Enjoy commander," Decker muttered sullenly, obviously determined to be petulant. "I woulda given you whatever you wanted without the price tag," he dared to nudge Garrus with the toe of his boot, "but apparently you like them broken."

In the bright lights of the hallway, Garrus' condition looked worse than it had in the dimness of the cell. Gently turning him over, Shepard pressed her fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse flutter weak and erratic beneath the abnormally cold hide. "Its all over now," she hates the choking feeling of tears in the back of her throat, "we're going home now. We're going home, and its all going to be ok."


	4. Hell is in the details

Jack is a raging spitfire of hate and belligerence. Once Shepard orders her released from the biotic dampening restraints the guards have fitted her with, she paces the dock, heaping spite and outrage on Kuril, Miranda, the Normandy, Cerberus, Purgatory, essentially anything breathing or inanimate. Her vitriol only eases when Shepard promises her access to classified Cerberus files, doing her best to ignore Miranda's outraged protests.

The short shuttle ride is made in tense silence. Miranda can barely contain her distaste of their newest biotic crewmate, and Shepard, far too aware of the slight weight of unconscious turian half cradled in her arms, hopes their inevitable confrontation can wait until the shuttle has landed. She had first ordered, then bullied, and eventually bribed Grunt into hauling Garrus to the docks, the young Krogan grumbling with disgust every step of the way.

"Alright, I'll bite," Jack's strident voice sliced through the shuttle, as she gestured at Garrus, "what the fuck is that. Seriously Commander, you just in the rescue business, 'cause if so, I swear I saw a little bitty varren pup back there." Her mocking laugh is brazen and bright.

"All you need to know," Miranda sighed, her body rigid with irritation "is that he was a ...personal prisoner of the Warden's."

"Oh." The sneer on Jack's face faded slightly, as she leaned back against the shuttle wall, "in that case, do him a favor and end him before he wakes up." She shrugs at Shepard's cold glare, crossing her arms defensively, "I could do it if you can't, but trust me, he isn't going to thank you for the rescue if that's what you think."

"And you know this how?" Shepard didn't even try to keep the hostility from her voice, as she tucks the emergency blanket from the shuttle kit tighter around Garrus, as if the material could shelter him from the cruelty of the young biotic's words. Despite the blanket he's still too cold, and Shepard finds herself waiting anxiously for each shallow breath.

"Heard talk is all...about what that fucking sadist of a warden does to his 'specials'," Jack turns the last word into a disgusted sneer, "and he's a turian, so he's most likely to off himself anyway." She shrugs a slim, tattooed shoulder, "I'd watch him around guns for a while commander," tapping a fingernail against her temple, the biotic levels a bitter smile at Shepard, "bullets are going to look really friendly to him for a while."

The dull thunk of the shuttle's landing gear ends the conversation. Jack is up and moving the second the door hisses open, her harsh face schooled into a bored expression as she marches off towards the elevator, hips swinging in deliberate provocation. Miranda scrambles out after her, casting an apologetic glance back over her shoulder at Shepard, clearly torn between staying to help her commander and making sure an unsupervised Jack didn't destroy anything.

Shepard waves her off, muttering "come on Grunt, help me here" to the reluctant krogan.

Stumping over to stare down at the prone, blanket swathed turian, Grunt's mobile mouth curls into a surprisingly human expression of disgust.

"He stinks Shepard," he grumps with typical Krogan bluntness. " Stinks like death...and humans." Despite his grumbling, Grunt is surprisingly careful as he scoops Garrus' emaciated body out of Shepard's grasp, rumbling his disapproval as he hops heavily down from the shuttle.

The blunt assertion of Garrus' condition makes Shepard's eyes burn as she follows the krogan toward the elevator, turians were a fastidious people as a whole, Garrus was no exception. Shepard had always found his natural, faintly metallic scent pleasant. Even as she had wrapped the blanket around the turian's horribly thin shoulders, she had been aware that he smelled strongly of human sweat and dried semen, overlayed with the faintly sweet/copper smell of his hemocyanin based blood, and the dark ugly reek of old wounds and infection.

Shepard's initial plan had been to have Grunt move him straight to the med bay, but somehow the thought of immediately depositing Garrus to Chakwas in this current, undignified condition makes her feel faintly ill. Trampling down the remnants of her better judgement, Shepard waits for the heavy elevator doors to close behind her and Grunt before bypassing the controls that would take them to the main crew deck, instead after only a seconds hesitation, she slaps in the command for her own private cabin.

Shepard couldn't help but feel uncomfortable as she used a pair of medical shears to cut the the filthy and tattered remains of Garrus' underarmour free. It wasn't that she was bothered by nudity, that was concept that military service drummed out of its recruits; it wasn't even that Garrus wasn't human, there had been limited shower space on the SR1 and it hadn't taken long for the human crew to adapt to sharing the bathing facilities with the aliens. It was the terrible vulnerability that bothered her, Garrus was meant to be at her back, sniper rifle in hand, ready with some sarky comment or quip...not sprawled out on her bathroom floor as Shepard carefully cut his clothing away from some of the worst damage she had seen in her entire military career.

The shower was set to a fine misting spray, the water serving to loosen some sections of cloth that were adhered to untreated wounds, as well as rinse off the worst of the grime. The cleaning was a kind of mixed blessing, the tattered clothing and dried blood had served to conceal injuries Shepard would have preferred she had never known about. Working a patch of gummed on cloth away from the sensitive skin of Garrus' waist, Shepard swore as she uncovered a festering Blood Pack brand; and when what she had assumed was dried blood on his inner thighs, and along the edges of his twisted pubic plating, turned out to be bone-deep bruising, Shepard has to turn her face away, resting her cheek on the cool tile of the wall.

The water was hot enough to sting in Shepard's tracery of red cybernetic scars, but she hoped it might provide some manner of comfort to the still unresponsive Garrus.

"Remember after Noveria?" Shepard carefully wiped a sterile cloth over the worst of the damage along his jaw, "you bitched about being cold for days, eventually Ash jacked up the temperature in the work bay, just to shut you up." With a fond smile, Shepard added the stained cloth to a growing pile in the corner. The memories ate at her gut like an ulcer, they seemed so long ago and impossibly removed from the horror of the situation she faced now.

Grimacing at the mangled mess of Garrus' shoulder, Shepard managed to keep her voice light as she related the story about accidentally recruiting Grunt; trying to keep her mind on that, rather than on the jagged edges of a compound fractured humerus and shattered plating under her fingers. In a few places, she could see thick lines of clumsy stitches in the half-healed devastation; the mercs probably had done enough triage to stop him bleeding out Shepard thought numbly. Gently touching the rough, black line of the stitching at the base of his throat, Shepard tries hard not to imagine Garrus bleeding out on the floor of some filthy Omega apartment. Of blue eyes going flat and glazed in death. Clearing her throat she balls the stained cloths up, and as she rises she hears the slight scrape of plating against tile as Garrus shifts.

Its not much, just a twitch of one horrifically thin leg that drags the spur on that side across the tile, but Shepard feels her stomach drop. "Ah shit, please don't wake up, not yet," hurriedly kneeling next to the turian, she quickly palms the off switch on the shower, halting the thin spray of near-scalding water. "Damn it Vakarian,don't wake up."

Apparently in the two years Shepard had been dead, Garrus had discovered his inner rebel, because as his eyes flickered open, it became obvious he wasn't going to obey Shepard's request. Watching him blink, obviously still shocky from the stunner, Shepard entertains a brief hope that maybe this time he'll recognize her; but as he lunges away from her, foot talons scrabbling for purchase on the wet tile, it obvious there will be no easy way here. Garrus' back hits the wall with a sharp crack of bone on tile, and he immediately sinks down into a crouch, panting for breath.

"Hey, its ok," Shepard takes a step forward, raising her hands in what she hopes is a non species-specific gesture of peace. As Garrus cringes back, pupils contracting to pinpricks in the bright light, Shepard realises he's not looking at her, his eyes are fixed on the medical shears she's still holding in her hand. As his eyes fix on the flash of blade, Garrus makes a horrible low noise in the back of his throat, and tilts his head back, exposing his throat as he lets his knees fall open, spreading his legs with a terrible, shaky resignation.

Shepard turns and flings the shears at the opposite wall, watching them skitter in a glittering arc across the tile, coming to rest in the doorway. Bile burns with a sickly heat in the back of her throat, and she only barely makes it to the stainless steel sink before being violently ill. Rinsing the burning taste of sick from her mouth, Shepard watches Garrus tuck his knees up again, his gaze swinging back and forth between Shepard and the tiled floor.

"Wh...where?" the raspy voice makes Shepard jump.

Slowly crouching down, Shepard tries to meet Garrus' eyes, but he immediately shies away, pressing his face against his knees. "You're on the Normandy," Shepard tries to make her voice as soothing as she can, fisting her hands into the wet material of her pants to stop them from shaking.

That gets a slight twitch of browridge, "it burned," his voice is so soft Shepard has to strain to hear him.

"Yeah, yeah it did, but it got rebuilt." Guessing what Garrus' next statement would be, Shepard adds, "I got rebuilt too, got the scars to prove it," she presses a finger to the tracery of crimson on her cheek.

"Broken," he mutters softly, "y..you shouldn't have...meant t..to be dead."

"Wow, thanks for that Garrus," Shepard feels an immediate flash of guilt for the reprimand, when she sees him start to shiver, his breath coming in short pants.

"N..not you," Garrus reaches up to dig his clipped talons into the terrible wounds on the side of his neck, making Shepard cringe. "Me, t..they made me watch, they made me watch...then they...I ...I don't want to be here." His shivering is getting worse, Shepard can hear the sharp clatter of his functioning mandible clicking against the side of his jaw; before he can pull away she reaches up to touch the hide on his neck, finding it almost ice cold. "N..no, please," he winces back like she had burned him.

"Garrus, Garrus I need to get you to medical," Shepard has a sinking feeling that that suggestion isn't going to go over well, and is confirmed when Garrus shakes his head violently.

"No...n..no doctors, please" Garrus twists his face away from Shepard, but she's used to reading the complex shifts of mandibles and jaw that make up turian expressions, and she recognizes this expression as clearly as she would on a human face. Shame. "Not...fixable. What they did...I don't want this Shepard." Garrus makes a low keen in the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut.

Shepard prefers problems she can shoot, failing that, she prefers problems she can huck a grenade at. This is so far beyond what she is used to, she isn't even sure where to start. She's reminded painfully of Veetor, the traumatized quarian she had met on Freedom's Progress, and wonders when she became a PTSD magnet. "This isn't your fault Garrus, none of it," she asserts lamely, wishing she knew what she was supposed to say.

Garrus is starting to slump to the side, breathing harshly irregular, but his eyes are startlingly clear as he raises his head enough to look Shepard in the face for the first time. "It is...my fault. They hurt them...they hurt them so badly," he makes a kind of gasping cry that sounds actively painful, "and then it wouldn't stop...they just kept...they kept...it wouldn't stop Shepard, it just wouldn't stop."

Any fight goes out of him then, his exhausted shaking muscles going limp, and Shepard reaches out to catch him before his head cracks against the floor. He doesn't flinch back from her this time, his head resting loosely against her shoulder, plates ice cold against her neck, eyes open and staring dully at nothing.

"Ok, ok," Shepard soothes a hand over the sweep of Garrus' fringe, carefully avoiding the raw edge of the sheared off spine. "It's going to be ok, just trust me, we're going to fix this."


	5. Splinters

The sandwich had probably started out as ham and cheese, but Shepard had managed to reduce it to a collection of shredded bits on the plate. Her fingers nervously plucking at the ruined bread, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces as she watched the blacked out windows of the medbay.

Garrus hadn't spoken again after his outburst in the shower, but his silent, pliant acceptance of the situation bothered Shepard almost worse than his protests.

Wrapping him in a sheet salvaged from her bed, Shepard had expected him to pull away from her, but he limply did exactly as she asked, dead eyes fixed blankly on something only he could see. The connotations of that reaction were not lost on Shepard, and she hated Kuril with a fresh surge of disgust. He hadn't even protested when she pulled his good arm over her shoulder and half walked, half carried him down to the medical level, and Shepard felt a sting of guilt for using his own conditioned responses against him. He offered no response or protest as Shepard propped him as carefully as she could on an exam table, staying exactly as he was placed.

Chakwas had looked as shocked by Garrus' condition as Shepard had been, her lips compressing into an angry thin line as she eased the sheet back from the mangled ruin of his right shoulder. Shepard could see her own heartsick horror mirrored on the Doctor's face as she prepped a syringe of sedative, and Garrus silently extended a thin arm for her; multiple injection sites showing up under the bright examination lights in a macabre pattern.

Once Garrus was down, tormented eyes finally fluttering shut, Chakwas had dismissed Shepard, her face grim and closed. Standing outside the med bay, listening to the door locks engage, Shepard feels like a consummate coward for not insisting she stay. Watching as the bay windows flicker from transparent to opaque gray, she hopes Garrus will understand why she simply cannot be there.

Wracked with guilt and self recrimination Shepard paces from the mess to the med bay door for over an hour. Eventually she accepts a plate of food from a hovering Gardner, forcing herself to sit, hands plucking fitfully at the bread and meat.

When the doors finally slide open, Shepard has to restrain herself from not bounding to her feet and demanding answers; instead she sits stiffly, waiting for to ease herself into a seat. Meeting the Doctor's eyes, Shepard can tell the news isn't going to be good because for once Chakwas looks actually old, old, sick and tired.

"I honestly don't know where to start here commander," Chakwas runs a hand through the disarray of her usually impeccable steel-grey hair. " I'm not even sure how Garrus is even still alive, I've never seen anyone in this condition."

"What are we looking at then," Shepard manages to almost make her voice even. Almost.

"The blast trauma to his face and shoulder is extensive, it may be possible to work with, but..." Chakwas gives a tired sigh. "He's been starved, to the point that his body can't even regulate his own internal temperature, and there are signs of organ failure as well; add that to the fact that his immune system is more or less destroyed..."

Shepard can't even look at the sympathy on the Doctor's face. "His immune system?" she questions dully.

Chakwas doesn't answer for a second, and Shepard watches her hands tighten on the table until her knuckles show starkly white. " That damage is the result of repeated exposure to levo based proteins," at Shepard's confused glance, she clarifies softly, "my guess is that this is from...what looks like weeks of unprotected...abuse."

Shepard lowers her head to rest against her palm, wishing she could simply press her hands over her ears. "He's also been injected multiple times with the street drug 'haze'...its a nerve stimulant popular with batarians. It acts to reduce motor function, while enhancing nerve stimuli to the brain...the biggest problem is that again, it's synthesized for non dextro users." Shepard remembers the crisscross pattern of needle marks on Garrus' arm and feels sick.

"What is your recommendation then," Shepard asks hollowly.

"Honestly?" Chakwas doesn't even wait for Shepard to nod, "he should be transferred to a trauma hospital, as soon as possible."

Shepard tries to imagine Garrus waking up in another strange and unfamiliar place. They would drug him there she realized, probably restrain him when he tried to fight them; he would end up in some psych ward, dosed to complacency and trapped in the horrors of his own mind. "No," Shepard says firmly, "not an option."

"Commander," Shepard can hear the censure in the Doctor's voice, "this is not the place for someone recovering from that kind of physical trauma, that's even not taking the probable mental damage into account."

"I said no." Shepard watches the Doctor stiffen at the coldness in her voice. "What are our other options."

"I can try to surgically repair the worst of the damage here," Chakwas sounds resigned, "I can tell you right now its going to require extensive cybernetic grafting; I'll require Dr. Solus to scrub in on this as well."

"Do it," Shepard pushes herself back from the table, willing her knees to keep her steady.

"Very well commander," rises to join her, moving forward to rest a sympathetic hand against Shepard's shoulder, "I'll do everything I can for Garrus, but you have to understand he's very weak, he may not even survive this.

Garrus had been in surgery for close to seven hours, when Miranda had interrupted Shepard's pacing ritual with an urgent mission brief. Or so Shepard had thought. The 'urgent' mission had turned out to be a small, well established eclipse base on a backwater planet; but Shepard supposed that it could be considered a priority to prevent the distribution of illegal vid reproductions. The distraction was as blatant as it could possibly be, but in a way Shepard was glad of it. This she could do: point and shoot.

Thankfully, the eclipse mercenaries had decided to defend their counterfeiting business with typical enthusiasm; the resulting firefight had cleared Shepard's head for the duration, and resulted in, as Zaeed happily announced, 'the best goddamn afternoon in weeks.'

Now, out of her armour, skin still tingling from a quick shower, Shepard stares at the green-lit icon on the med bay door, and wonders how a door can be so much more intimidating than a mercenary squad. With a deep breath, she presses her hand to the access panel, stomach going cold and still.

Chakwas is sitting at her desk when the door opens, her chin resting on her hand; and as she turns tired eyes toward the door, Shepard feels a sick cold weight settle in her gut. "Shepard," the Doctor smiles wearily up at the her, "I thought I might be seeing you as soon as you got back." Chakwas tilts her head at a screened off area at the rear of the clinic, "go on then."

Garrus is so buried under medical apparatus and bandaging , Shepard wonders briefly if there is even a turian in there anywhere. "Hey," she says softly, tentatively reaching out to brush her fingertips over his brow ridge, relieved he was warm to the touch. "I see Chakwas has you all toasty warm again."

"I'm afraid I cant take credit for that one, Dr. Solus rigged up heating pads" Dr. Chakwas taps at some of the medical jargon scrolling past on one of the monitoring screens."They'll keep his core temperature at a normal level until his own thermal regulation kicks back in again."

Shepard looks down at Garrus, eyes skimming over the grafting and pressure bandages on his face, "he's going to be alright though?"

"I really can't say yet commander," Chakwas sighs, and Shepard is struck by how exhausted she looks. "He came through the basic trauma surgery surprisingly well, I'm confident the cybernetics we implanted will restore auditory and muscular control through his face and shoulder, although it will take him some time to adapt. Its the immune damage I'm most worried about. Dr. Solus is working on an enhanced kind of immune-booster to hopefully clear the infection agents from his system; until then its touch and go."

"Why is that the worst issue?" Shepard questions , "I mean, I remember that time Joker dared Garrus to eat one of Kaidan's meals...other than the fact that he said it was the foulest thing he's ever swallowed, he didn't seem bothered by it."

"No, a healthy adult wouldn't have much of a reaction to limited contact" Chakwas smiles a little at the memory, "although I do recall you reprimanded them both for errant stupidity anyway. This is comparable to, say, getting a splinter in your hand. If left alone, it will work itself out without issue, but imagine if everyday more splinters were driven in...eventually your body would rebel. Its not that the splinters themselves were toxic, its that your body simply couldn't handle a large amount of them." Reaching up to adjust the flow rate on an IV cannula, the Doctor shakes her head, "for Garrus, he was already injured when...when he was brought into repeated contact with levo DNA, the ongoing contact saturated his system with unfamiliar protein, causing his immune system to attack his own body.

"How long did Mordin say he would need to find a treatment for this?" Shepard hooks a toe around a nearby stool, dragging it close enough to sit by Garrus.

"Knowing , I imagine he will have found a treatment shortly," Shepard raises an eyebrow at the doctor's curt tone, "honestly commander, that man is exhausting. If you are planning to stay, I wouldn't mind getting some rest myself?"

"Go ahead," Shepard smiles as the harried doctor takes her leave. Reaching over, she carefully clasps Garrus' thin, limp hand in her own, "I'm not going anywhere."


	6. Scientist Salarian

Shepard jerks awake with a groan when the door hisses open, she hadn't meant to drift off, but the heat and comforting white noise of the medical machinery had acted as a powerful soporific."Oh, ow," she digs a knuckle into her lower back with a groan, stretching until she hears her spine pop. Absently she wonders why Cerberus couldn't have rebuilt her with a knot-proof spine. They had determinedly removed every slight flaw and defect, from the broken nose to the graft scar on her left knee; it wouldn't have been too much to ask.

"Shepard, would advise alternate sleeping arrangements, spinal discomfort possible risk in combat situations," Mordin patters into the room, brimming with his usual jittery energy."Patient stable? Yes. Good." Despite his advanced age, Dr. Solus is a constant dervish of motion and energy.

Shepard stands back as the salarian begins rapidly scanning through the data on the monitors, large, liquid eyes flicking between the screens and a projection above his omnitool. "Responding well to antibiotics, cybernetic integration satisfactory," Mordin nods rapidly to himself, "provided no extreme adverse reactions to immune-booster, prognosis is hopeful. Tentative, too early for full prognosis. But hopeful."

"What kind of 'extreme reactions' are we talking about here?" Shepard watches with trepidation as Mordin extracts two preloaded syringes from the pocket of his lab coat. "I'm not sure this is a great idea, Doctor, can this wait until he's stronger?"

"Tachycardia probable, also dypsnea and pyrexia. Possibility of seizure." Mordin deftly flips the valve on one of the IV lines, injecting the first syringe directly into the IV port, then releasing the valve and watching the clear serum flood through the line. "Not a time for caution Shepard," the salarian adds, seeing the distress on the commander's face, "no time for trials. Extended research. Drug trials."

"So we just wing it, hope for good luck then?"

"Luck?!" Mordin sounds shocked and borderline offended, mouthing the word like he was saying 'dung'. "Not luck Shepard! Research. Probability statistics. Science!" Still huffing crossly, he pushes the second dose into another line.

'Alright, sorry," Shepard raises her hands in defeat, watching Mordin hook an oddly shaped oxygen mask carefully over Garrus' face. For all his energetic medical jargon, the salarian is oddly gentle with his patient; even going so far as to give him an almost paternal pat on the head as he finishes setting the oxygen levels.

"Apologies unnecessary," Mordin graces her with a genuine smile, "concern understandable. Will continue to monitor remotely, goodnight Shepard."

"You're leaving?!" Shepard watches blankly as Mordin hurries to the doorway, still absently reading a display on his omnitool..

"Of course, still analyzing collector data. Lots of data. Very promising..." the door slides closed before he can even finish the sentence, and Shepard flops back down onto her stool, resolutely ignoring the twinge of protest from her back.

Its one of the longest nights Shepard can remember, every bleek of alarm from the monitoring equipment jolts her with adrenaline; and she stares at the erratic heart monitor until the numbers blur and her eyes fill with grit. Garrus tosses restlessly for hours, breath coming in sharp pants, huffing a cloud of condensation against the oxygen mask with every exhale. He murmurs in his drugged sleep, and Shepard thinks he's repeating names, but his voice is too slurred and muffled to tell.

Sometimes Garrus jerks and cries out like he's in pain, and Shepard wonders if it's the treatment, withdrawal from the drugs he's been subjected to during his captivity, or simply the product of his own horrific memories. The pain medications are enough to keep the purely physical agony of his post-surgery injuries at bay, but they can't touch the pain of the mind. She carefully untangles the snarled IV lines from his restless hands, crooning wordless nonsense in the hopes her voice will somehow sooth him.

During the early hours of the morning Garrus finally slips into a quiet, exhausted sleep. Shepard tiredly watches the red numbers across the monitors slowly turn to green as his heart rate slows and regulates, daring to feel the first surges of genuine hope. Straightening the rumpled sheets over Garrus' painfully thin form, Shepard rests a hand lightly on his shoulder, wishing she could will her own strength into his body. A harried looking Dr. Chakwas arrives shortly thereafter, and after assuring Shepard that yes, Garrus was stable, evicts her from the medbay. Shepard is loathe to leave, but she's exhausted in both mind and body.

Dragging her sweaty shirt over her head, Shepard kicks her boots off, for once not really caring about leaving them scattered across her cabin. She rolls her shoulders, enjoying the feel of blessed coolness against her overheated skin. Pausing by her personal terminal, she flicks it to recent messages. The usual array of requests and thanks scroll past, and Shepard flags them for later, about to turn away when one address catches her eye.

Blinking blearily at the address, Shepard wrinkles her brow in confusion, "who the hell is Nalah Butler?"


	7. 17:21

The message proves to have no actual text, only two video links and a return message address. Frowning slightly as she realizes the message is marked as having originated on Omega, Shepard shrugs, settling back as she opens the first file.

The woman looks to be in her mid thirties, and Shepard thought she must have been pretty once. Now eyes and cheeks are hollow, the coffee colored skin dull, lank hair scraped roughly back into a tight bun that only accentuates the tired planes of her face. She reaches out to adjust whatever she is filming this with, and Shepard can see that her hands are trembling, the nails chewed to the quick. Its obvious she's having trouble composing herself as she sits back, bleak, red rimmed eyes meeting Shepard's through the camera as she speaks.

"_Hello Commander Shepard, my name is Nalah Butler. You don't know me...but I wanted to contact you in the hopes that you could help a mutual friend. You know him as Garrus Vakarian, here on Omega we called him Archangel. I don't know how much you know about what happened here, about what happened to Garrus... what happened to his squad, and..and to my husband._

_Months ago, my husband joined Garrus; they were hitting back at the gangs that rule Omega. They were killing the worst of them, interrupting their weapons and drug shipments; for the first time it wasn't just the regular citizens who had to fear living here."_

Nalah pauses for a moment, tears glinting in well worn tracks on her cheeks, her hands are almost unconsciously curled around her belly. Noticing the swell previously hidden behind the woman's loose clothing, Shepard realizes that Nalah is pregnant. It takes a few seconds for Nalah to compose herself enough to continue, scrubbing the tears from her tired face with a tattered sleeve.

"_Seven weeks ago the mercenary gangs united to bring them down. The gangs tracked them to an old, abandoned apartment complex they often stayed at. Garrus and his squad held that damned place for six full days, until the mercs got smart enough to coordinate a simultaneous attack._

The video feed seems to freeze, but it's just Nahlah staring uncomfortably to the side. She opens her mouth silently a few times, as if trying to force words out past her obvious grief. Shepard can catch a flash of some unidentified emotion on her face, but it's quickly smoothed away as she continues in a small, thin voice.

_"They overran the complex, m..must have cut through some blast doors on the lower levels, hit the front with mechs and a gunship...seven of Garrus' squad were killed outright; they were the lucky ones."_

Shepard can see the tension on Nahlah's face, the way she twists her hands in her lap, and has that cold, dawning feeling that this is going to turn into something she doesn't really want to hear.

"_They said, they said they had to make an example...to make sure that the citizens understood who was in charge. That we had no chance...no way of fighting back. This was the price for defying them...for daring. I...I cannot...what they did, I simply cannot explain Commander, I hope you can forgive my cowardice. The second file I sent you will explain what I cannot._

_It may sound horrible, but I had hoped Garrus had not survived the injuries he sustained during the initial attack; but a few months ago there were rumors the merc groups had moved him off Omega. I didn't hear anything for weeks...then a few days ago, there was news that you had removed a turian prisoner from the purgatory facility...and I hoped. He will think everything is his fault Commander, but he couldn't have stopped this, no..nobody could._

_You need to help him commander. Please, make him understand. His squad was to work with him, proud of everything they did. He always spoke so highly of you, if anyone can help him, its you."_

With a sad smile, Nalah leans forward, hand fumbling for the recorder, and the screen flashes to dark. Shepard runs a hand over her face, her mind keeps cycling back to the decision to not dock at Omega immediately, wondering if she could have made a difference.

The attached file loads as video format. Its untitled, displaying only a flashing run-time in the bottom corner: 17:21. Reluctant, filled with a dread she can't understand, Shepard taps play.

The video file opens to a chaotic blur of movement and muted sound. Shepard can hear people laughing and cheering, the video feed swings wildly, presumably recorded via omni-cam. A face appears in the screen, a flushed young man in a skull fitting took, probably no older than seventeen. Waving an antiquated pistol he looks half drunk on excitement. "We fucking did it! Yeaahh!" he howls into the camera before gyrating away.

Shepard blinks in confusion, "what is this?" she mutters, as the camera jags wildly, finally centering shakily on a motley collection of armored forms clustered in front of the agitated crowd. Movement on the left hand side of the screen draws her attention, and as the picture quality clears slightly, Shepard feels a sick realization starting to build.

Garm is easy to recognize, his hulking, crimson armored body towering over his allies; Shepard sickly wishes the turian he is manhandling wasn't so recognizable. Garrus looks dazed and shocky, the terrible wounds on his face and shoulder rawly new, still oozing dark blood down his arm; Garm has an iron grip on his jaw, turning his head to show the crowd of mercenaries, bestial face splitting into a grin as they roar their approval. Shepard suspects that hold is the only thing keeping Garrus on his feet, but as three more prisoners are pushed forward he tries to lunge toward them, crying out when Garm forces him to his knees with a sharp jerk on his broken shoulder.

A blood spattered asari spits at her jeering batarian captors, Shepard can barely make out her cry of 'leave him alone, you fucking cowards!' before the noise from the crowd overwhelms her protests. Beside her, a bearded human man looks simply resigned, face grim and streaked with gore; the turian he's supporting simply looks scared, pale purple marked mandibles pressed tight to his jaw. As the asari turns to snarl at one of the guards beside her, another drives a combat knife into her side, and Shepard watches sickly as shocked pain blooms across her pretty face. They throw her to the cheering crowd, and the camera swings wildly again, punctuated by the howls and cheers of the onlookers. There is a brief flash of the asari in the grip of her tormentors, armour shredded, half naked body slicked with blood. Her eyes are all whites, pupils rolled back as her mouth gapes open in a scream that's obscured by the obscene howls of her tormentors. The crowd seems half mad, high on the adrenaline rush of their cruelty.

The camera stabilizes again when the mercs toss the limp, stripped body of the asari at Garm's feet, her head lolling limply on a broken neck, body mottled with blood and bruises. The stab wound in her stomach gapes grossly like a toothless hungry mouth. Garrus has gone still, hanging in the krogan's grasp like a ragdoll, his eyes fixed and frozen on the body of the friend at his feet. Shepard watches numbly as the other two prisoners are forced forward, a grinning batarian kicks the human roughly to his knees, the turian, devoid of his support crumples with him.

Then Garm is dragging Garrus forward, a mad grin fixed on his craggy face as he leans down to whisper something to him. Garrus starts to fight in earnest then, screaming and trying to twist away, shaking his head and slashing feebly up at his captor with shaking talons. Garm barks a grating laugh and simply hauls him up like he's disciplining a varren pup, pressing something into Garrus' hand, massive hand forcing the turian's arm up level with his shoulder. Shepard recognizes the object Garm is clenching Garrus' hand around a brief second before the first echoing shot echoes out. Garrus screams a guttural protest as the human topples backward, blood arching from a shattered throat, hands clawing feebly at the ruins of his carotid artery. The turian prisoner stares in silent shock as the human twitches into stillness, dazedly touching his fingers to the spatters of crimson arterial spray on his face. He's still looking at the blood on his fingers when a second forced shot tears through his chest, sending him down to scrabble out his last seconds to the roars of the crowd.

There's nothing sane in Garrus' eyes now, as he stares slackly down at the still twitching bodies, gaze so empty and dead Shepard thinks the corpses almost look more alive. Another roaring cheer runs through the crowd as Garm retrieves the gun from Garrus' limp grasp. A rough hand forcing him to kneel next to the bodies of his crew, pushing his head down until his face is pressed into the slick of gore, forehead pressed against the limp form of the dying turian in a terrible parody of intimacy. Garrus tries weakly to push away, talons skidding through the slick of red and navy blood as Garm holds him down with one powerful hand between his shoulders, other hand moving to pull aside the codpiece of his own armor.

Shepard slams a hand down on the com-station so hard a crack zigzags across the screen, warping the terrible scene into a blessed mosaic of static feedback. Staring at the now silent unit, Shepard almost wants to hide, to run until she can't see that dead, haunted look in Garrus' eyes. Run unitl she can't see the leer on Garm's face, or hear the laughter of the watching batarians as Garm roughly tore at Garrus' underarmor. She thinks sickly that Nalah Butler may have been wrong, how can she expect Shepard to help Garrus through this, when she can hardly comprehend it herself?

She cant even remember rising, but her knees shake as she walks slowly to the bed, aware of the saline slick of cold sweat on her skin. She curls up, knees tucked up against her roiling stomach. In the back of her pitiless mind a bright eyed turian cop smiles as he thanks her for the opportunity of serving with her, and Shepard presses her hands to her face and weeps.


	8. Just holding on

Garrus sleeps for four days. Shepard frets almost constantly, torn between the desire to see him wake, and the paralyzing self doubt that she can't possibly do anything to help him once he does. A slide show of images from that damned video twist through her mind in an endless loop, plaguing her waking hours and making her nights a nightmare kaleidoscope of horrific dreams.

The coffee is Gardner's typical bitter brew, but Shepard gulps it down anyway, relishing the sting of it on her tongue as she watches Chakwas carefully change the dressings that cover the bloodpack brand on Garrus' stomach. The edges of the burn are startlingly black against the turian's tan hide. Chakwas slicks on a clear, viscous ointment before taping a fresh patch of sterile gauze over it.

Shepard sees the first flicker of muscle tension as Chakwas turns away to toss the stained bandaging into the bio-hazard bin. Its not much-just a twitchy movement of his arm, but Shepard is already rising, bitter coffee forgotten, when his eyes snap open. His eyes are clearer, Shepard notes, devoid of the dull haze of sickness, but still a long way from sane.

"Hey," Shepard begins, making the initial mistake of leaning forward, hand outstretched in a hopeless effort to calm him. A desperate attempt to forestall the reaction she's afraid she's going to receive, "it's just me, Garrus."

Garrus flings himself back from her so savagely he hits the floor in a tangle of bony limbs and sheets. The spur of one flailing leg hooking on a medical stand, sending a tray of surgical instruments crashing to the floor in a cascade of silver. Struggling awkwardly to his feet, Garrus claws almost frantically at the IV lines in his arms; the monitors set up a piercing alarm as he drags the ports roughly free, spattering the floor with droplets of dark blue blood. The alarms seem to startle him more, and he lunges away, clawed feet scrabbling for purchase on the slick floor.

Chakwas moves slowly in to shut the alarms down, keeping her movements steady and non aggressive, backing quickly away when the shrill beeping is silenced. Garrus tracks her with a swing of his head, one hand raising to paw curiously at the bandages and grafting on his jaw.

"You remember Doctor Chakwas?" Shepard tries for a smile, "you'd think she would get tired of patching this crew up, but here she is."

"No doctors...I didn't want..." Garrus looks fixedly at the floor, voice oddly flat, lacking the usual thrum of dual harmonics.

"You were dying, Garrus."

Raising his head, Garrus fixes Shepard with a stare as dead and flat as his voice, "I know."

Shepard feels a cold lurch at that statement, and stands, watching helplessly as Garrus starts to shake with the strain of staying upright. He folds his knees, and Shepard thinks his strength has given out, but he fumbles for something on the floor then manages to stagger back to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Shepard..." Chakwas warns lowly at the same second Shepard realizes what Garrus had retrieved. He's staring down at the surgical scalpel in his hand with a kind of dreamlike fascination, and as he starts to raise the flash of blade to his own throat, Shepard flings herself forward with a desperate panic.

Shepard had sparred several times with Garrus on the SR1, and had enjoyed the challenge. With a combination of turian military tactics and C-sec training, Garrus in his fighting prime could spar her to a standstill. Its that experience that makes it all the more surprising that, even in his weakened state, Garrus goes down like he's been poleaxed when Shepard pile drives her full weight into him. There's no time for niceties, and Shepard wrenches Garrus' hand away from his throat, digging her fingers roughly into the pressure points in his wrist joint, until his fingers spasm open, and the scalpel falls free. She kicks it away, keeping her grip on Garrus' wrist as he writhes beneath her, voicing a gut wrenching keen of despair.

"God dammit Garrus! stop, STOP!" Shepard hates the necessity of this, as Garrus goes shakily pliant, head tilting in the submission that Shepard has come to hate. His eyes go strangely distant, starting to glaze as his mind seeks refuge from the suffering he's been conditioned to expect.

"No, just stay with me." Shepard presses her free hand to the side of Garrus' face, "that's right, just stay with me, you're safe. Nobody's going to hurt you, you're ok." Garrus closes his eyes, but Shepard can feel the reactionary shivering ease slightly, and a faint almost unnoticeable pressure against her hand as he presses slightly into her touch.

For a long second Shepard thinks she's maybe she's imagining that slight pressure against her palm. Daringly she gently rubs her thumb over the colonial markings on his jaw, and Garrus tips his head slightly to the side, unconsciously pressing into the soothing touch. Shepard wonders sadly how long its been since anyone touched him with any manner of kindness, for him to fight down his natural response to pull away for such simple comfort. As much as she wants, almost desperately, to stay like that, Shepard is well aware that she is still pinning Garrus' wrist hard enough that she can feel his pulse against her fingers, and away from the heat of the bed his skin is cooling rapidly.

"Alright," she says softly, instantly missing the feel of him against her hand, as he jerks away from her voice. "I'm going to let you go now." Shepard eases back, carefully relaxing her grip on Garrus' wrist, ready to grab for him again if necessary.

As soon as he is out of her grip, Garrus scrabbles back until his back hits the wall, tucking his knees up in the achingly familiar defensive posture Shepard had first seen in purgatory. Instead of tucking his head down, he raises a hand to touch the light smear of blood on his neck where the scalpel had nicked him before Shepard had pulled it away. "Why did you?...I wanted..." Garrus looks up at Shepard, hurt and bewilderment written plainly in his pale blue eyes.

"Because I need you," Shepard says simply, sitting down crosslegged so she isn't towering over Garrus. "I trust you, and I need you at my back for this, more than you can know."

"Oh" Garrus says simply, eyes infinitely tired as he lets his head rest against the wall behind him.

Swallowing down the unexpected lump in her throat, Shepard adds, "and those fuckers, those goddamn bastards on Omega, on Purgatory...they cant win this Garrus. I need you to fight, I need you to fight them, one more time."

"I fought," Garrus mutters bleakly. "I fought...but they just wouldn't stop...I..I tried to make them stop, but everything... everything hurt...and they just kept.." His voice trails off into a mournful, choking keen, and Shepard watches sadly as he touches his own hand to the blue-marked plates of his cheek, broken talons scratching along the sensitive hide behind his jaw, pressing into his own touch as he tries to comfort himself.

"I know, I know...damnit, I know." Shepard wishes she had put a bullet in Kuril's skull when she had the chance, "but they can't touch you now, never again. Trust me on that."

Garrus blinks slowly at her, and Shepard can see him starting to shiver with cold, the loose scrub pants Chakwas had dressed him in offering no insulation against the sterile chill of the air. "I'm just...tired, Shepard. Don't want to fight... any more...," his gaze starts to waver with exhaustion, "Its...in my head, all the time..I can feel it all the time...can you make that stop?"

The desperate spark of hope in his eyes makes Shepard's gut lurch. "I don't know," she whispers, hating herself for the honesty, "but I'm going to damn well try, so I need you to stay with me, OK?" Shepard waits until Garrus manages an almost imperceptible nod, before carefully clambering to her feet. "We really need to get you back in bed, get you warmed up," she offers Garrus an open palm to help him up.

Garrus stares at her outstretched hand for a long moment, and Shepard can see the fingers on one hand twitching as he half raises it; he almost stretches out to her, then at the last minute snatches his hand back, levering himself up without assistance. Covering her disappointment with a reassuring smile, Shepard backs up as he weaves forward and manages to scramble onto the bed, curling up on his side with a sigh of relief as the heat sinks into his starved body. He doesn't even stir as Chakwas quietly steps in and shakes out a blanket over him, though he watches her warily until she backs away.

Shepard sits and waits by his bedside until he drifts of, the tension leeching out of his body in a series of overstressed muscle twitches, his breathing softening. She's just rising, quietly so as not to wake him, when he uncurls one thin arm. Reaching out with surprising speed, he snags the edge of her jacket.

Freezing, Shepard blinks down at Garrus in surprise, thinking for a moment that it was some kind of weird involuntary movement; but there is a flicker of blue as he slits his eyes open, his sleep hazed gaze flickering up to her then quickly away.

"Uhh, you...want me to stay?" Shepard isn't entirely sure if she was expecting a response, but Garrus' eyes flutter closed again, and his hand tightens its hold on her jacket. "I'll take that as a yes," Shepard can't hardly keep the grin off her face, as she eases back down to sit beside him. Garrus doesn't stir again for hours, but not once does he ease his grip; Shepard simply sits, lips curved in a slight smile and watches him breathe.


	9. Best intentions

The day had started out quietly enough. The Normandy had been docked at the Nos Astra ports for a full day, disgorging its crew to enjoy the sights and sounds of the Illium capital. Shepard had sought out Liara as soon as her boots hit the dock, and spent the better part of an hour coming apart on the poor asari's shoulder. Pacing as she pored out her frustration and heartbreak in a much needed catharsis. Much later, on her way back through the bright throng of the marketplace, Shepard's step was as light as it had been since she had first set foot on purgatory. Five minutes from the Normandy, Jokers voice had crackled tentatively over her headset, but his warning had made her blood run cold; and without even realizing she had moved, Shepard was sprinting for the docks.

The rampant destruction in the med bay was a little shocking. A somewhat hysterical Kelly Chambers was sat on a counter with Dr. Chakwas tersely telling her to tilt her head back as she pressed a compress over the bridge of her nose. The yeoman's tears had smeared nasal blood across a fairly impressive bruising welt on her jaw. Equipment was overturned, far too much complicated, and hence probably expensive machinery was scattered in disarray across the floor. Casting her eyes around the room, Shepard felt the bottom drop out of her stomach when she couldn't see Garrus. Instead her roving eyes settled on a smear of blue blood across the back wall.

Chakwas calmly stalled her frantic demands with a raised hand, " he's fine commander! Shaken and scared, but fine. I took him up to your quarters, I hope that's alright, it seemed like the best option." Noticing Shepard looking at the blood on the wall, she added, "Garrus caught himself on one of the thermal imaging monitors, nothing serious, but he tore a few stitches in his shoulder."

Preempted by on all counts, Shepard folded her arms, "then what exactly happened in here?"

Chakwas looked patiently at Kelly, obviously waiting for the young yeoman to begin the explanation, when it became apparent that tactic wasn't going to work the doctor thinned her lips in annoyance. "Best I saw, Kelly here decided that she wanted to come introduce herself to Garrus," at Shepard's furious glance, Kelly hunched down, looking miserable. "The second he backed away, Kelly decided to just keep pushing. Apparently body language was not covered in her supposedly extensive alien race studies."

"Stupid! Thoughtless, ignorant, insubordinate!" Shepard vented her fury with a savage kick at a medical waste receptacle, ignoring Dr. Chakwas' tut of disapproval as the steel bin smashed into the far wall. "What were you thinking, or did you just get up this morning determined to be as goddamn stupid as possible?"

Yeoman Kelly Chambers stared at the floor, eyes bright with tears as she blotted at her bloody nose with a handful of gauze, "I didn't mean to cause trouble Commander, I thought maybe I could help." Her face white as she looked up at Shepard, "I read everything I could find about your squad from the original Normandy...I knew Mr. Vakarian had served with you, and I thought I could..."

Shepard pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the headache that had been building like a thunderstorm in her cranium for the last several minutes. "You thought you could help?" she snarled in disbelief, "I gave the order to stay out of the med bay a week ago, and last I noticed the only person capable of countermanding my orders is me! The very last thing Garrus needs is to be poked at by Cerberus employees, no matter how curious they might be!"

"I really did think I could help," the yeoman is just so fucking earnest it makes Shepard want to kick her. "I thought if I could just talk to him...but...but he hit me," she touches a hand to the welts on her face, eyes wide with surprise and pain.

"Yes, he did," Chakwas interjects, "and you're lucky someone cut his talons, otherwise he would have most likely have taken most of that side of your face off." With a sigh, the doctor shakes her head, "honestly Kelly, how could you not have noticed he didn't want you near him?"

The yeoman simply stares miserably at the floor, bloody gauze still pressed to her nose with shaking fingers, until Shepard swallows down her simmering fury and curtly dismisses her. As the door shuts behind her, Shepard runs a hand through her hair, "so how bad was this?"

"Not as bad as you'd think," Chakwas bends down to retrieve a cracked datapad, slight smile on her stern face. "Garrus was more scared than hurt, go check in on him before you decide to resurrect the old naval tradition of keelhauling for the yeoman."

"Commander, a minute?" Rupert Gardner, the Normandy's mess sergeant, hailed Shepard with a waved spoon as she crossed to the elevator. "About that turian, the one you and the doc have been cosseting all week..." he began, stirring at something simmering on the stove. Shepard gritted her teeth, her headache spiking sharply; the tension must have shown on her face, because as he turned around, Gardner raised his hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, commander, nothing bad, ease up."

"Sorry Sergeant, its been a long day," Shepard rubbed tiredly at the back of her neck, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, you know the doc has me making meals for that turian friend of yours, typical 'rehab ration' stuff...bland, nutritious, easy to digest, blah blah. Unfortunately all I've got to work with is some dextro-based MREs we had in storage...and I'm guessing if they tasted as good as they looked they were probably pretty foul. Then I get this crate delivered," Gardner rattled a boot against an empty transport crate on the floor. "Came from an asari by the name of Liara T'Soni; she sent half a damn turian supermarket! Actual fresh ingredients, spices, she even wrote out a bunch of recipes," he waved a sheaf of printed sheets.

Shepard flushed, torn between gratitude for Liara's foresight, and guilt that she honestly hadn't even considered what Garrus had been eating. "Ah, thank you for telling me... I'll be sure to thank Liara."

"Oh, before you go commander," Gardner pushed a covered tray toward her with gruff embarrassment, "give this to your friend. I have no idea if I got it right...but it might taste a bit more like home, figure he could use that about now."

The lights in Shepard's quarters were mostly dimmed, and she stood in the doorway, tray in hand, blinking in the dimness. "Garrus?" she questioned, pressing a palm to the light sensor, watching as the light brightened, "Garrus, you alright?" Unsurprisingly, she found him with his back pressed to the wall, injured arm pressed against his chest as he looked up at her with dull eyes.

"Not Omega," Garrus said softly, as Shepard blinked at him in bafflement, "anywhere else...but not there, please...it could be here, on... Illium?...just..not Omega."

"Ok, what?" Shepard set the tray down as close as she could to Garrus, without startling him. "Try that again, because my human brain is kinda fried, and that made no sense at all."

"If I cant be here...I know why. Shouldn't have fought, never fight, never ...stand up...woman wasn't a threat...I'm sorry," he sounded devastated, and it took Shepard a few more seconds to connect the rather fragmented dots.

"Is this about Kelly? The woman in the med bay," Shepard clarified. "I'm not going to kick you off the ship for smacking her, if that's what you're worried about; in fact if you hadn't put her on her ass I might have been tempted to." As Garrus blinked at her in surprise, Shepard shoved the tray a bit closer, not giving him the chance to question her decision. "Here, quit worrying and try that, Gardner made it special."

The contents of the tray got a wide eyed stare of interest, and Garrus hooked a slice of some unidentifiable foodstuff up; shearing it in half with sharp teeth and tossing his head back to swallow, reminding Shepard of a Terran bird of prey. Whatever it was, the unidentified food made Garrus blink with surprise, and Shepard smiled to watch his mandibles twitch slightly with pleasure.

After finishing every scrap of food on the tray, Garrus simply curled up against the wall and was almost instantly asleep. His constant exhausted sleeping had initially worried Shepard, until Chakwas had assured her that it was, at this point in the turian's recovery, perfectly normal.

Shepard was working on a inventory list for Miranda when Garrus jerked awake, body tense as he swung his head around until his gaze settled on Shepard. "Can I stay?" he questioned in a slightly hazy voice.

"On the Normandy? Yes...on the floor? No, you're gonna be sore as hell sleeping down there."

"No..." Garrus raised a hand to scratch at the bandage on his jaw, remembered he didn't have any talons to scratch with and settled for rubbing his jaw against the plates on his forearm. Tilting his head to indicate the whole room, "I...I meant...here, can I stay here...please?"

"In my quarters?" Shepard raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I...uh, I'm not sure Chakwas is going to think that's a great idea."

"Oh...ok," Garrus' immediate soft resignation made Shepard wince.

"I mean...I can talk to her, but why would you want to stay here anyway?"

Garrus tilted his head so his undamaged cheek was resting on his knees, "Its...safe here, the med bay is too...bright...I just...like it here."

"Alright," Shepard sighed, headache making a gleeful reappearance. "I'll talk to Chakwas...but if she ok's this, its going to get really boring for you in here at times."

Managing a slight shrug of his thin shoulders, Garrus blinked up at Shepard, "EDI talks to me...sometimes...if I... remember too much."

"EDI?" And the day just keeps on getting weirder, Shepard thought. Why would the ships nosy AI want anything to do with an injured turian? "That's...unexpected; and what does EDI talk to you about?"

"Commander, I have access to a wide range of culturally relevant media, including popular music and vid productions." EDI's pleasant, disembodied voice filled the room, making Shepard jump, "as well as current news updates. I am also able to provide playback of communications when you are deployed.

The ship was playing Garrus turian music? Shepard couldn't help but feel a slight surge of resentment, it seemed everyone around her was able to anticipate what Garrus would need more than she ever could. Watching Garrus give EDI's holographic display an almost-smile as the AI activated with a shimmer of light, Shepard wondered exactly how much she was able to even contribute to her friend's recovery.

On her way back to the medbay, slow grind of the elevator set Shepard's teeth on edge, at the same time she almost wanted to do nothing more than slam her hand down on the emergency stop; to have that few minutes of silence and peace.


	10. Nightmares

_For some reason names keep disappearing when I upload new chapters. It seems this site really has it in for poor Chakwas and Mordin, who always seem to get their names deleted. Hopefully I caught and re-named everyone this time around~and many thanks to Blausen for catching the blank spots last chapter! :)_

Dr. Chakwas looked up from her console when Shepard marched wearily back into the med bay. "Apparently Garrus is now living in my quarters," she muttered, surprising herself with the sharpness of her own voice.

"I thought he might," a slight frown crinkled the doctor's forehead, "he relies on you a great deal commander, for both emotional stability, and for a sense of normalcy. He views you as safe, as a protector."

"Ha!" Shepard barked a harsh laugh, settling her hip against a counter, "I'm doing such a great job on that so far." Her voice softens as she rubs a hand across her forehead, "I'm going to fuck this up Karin. I shoot things, its what I do, its what Cerberus dragged me back to do. I don't even know what I'm doing..."

"Cerberus did not simply drag you back to 'shoot things', had they only wanted a trigger finger, they wouldn't have spent so much time making sure you had a mind." Shepard blinked as Chakwas bent to dig through a desk drawer, unable to find a way around that reasoning. "And I did warn you initially that I was unsure the Normandy was a good place for Garrus. But you insisted, and at this point relocating him to a treatment facility would be downright cruel."

"I wouldn't do that!" Chakwas raised an elegant eyebrow at Shepard's vehemence, "that's not what I meant...I just.. I'm just not sure what I can give him. If he needed a sniper mod, or new armor it wouldn't be a problem, but this..."

"Give him yourself commander, that's all he's looking for," the doctor pulled a bottle and a pair of slightly dusty glasses from her desk. "Garrus is remarkably resilient, he'll find his way back to you commander, you just have to be there when he does."

Accepting a glass of brandy, Shepard remembers the dead look in Garrus' eyes as he knelt in the blood of the friends Garm had forced him to murder, wonders at what point resilience breaks, and the alcohol burns bitter on her tongue.

Chakwas shifts, and Shepard can see she wants to say something. "Commander, if I might," she begins, waiting for Shepard to wave her glass in a gesture to continue. "Do you remember what you told Pressly when he complained about the inclusion of Garrus, Tali, and Wrex on the crew of the original Normandy?" Taking a sip of brandy, Chakwas continued , "you told him to give them a chance. That you were sure they would prove themselves."

"What does this have to do with anything?"

"Your crew Shepard, when do they get the chance to prove themselves?" Chakwas' voice is surprisingly gentle, but Shepard can hear the subtle reprimand.

"My 'crew' is made up of assigned Cerberus operatives," Shepard snaps, "surely you remember some of the sick experiments they did. Its not the same as with Pressly...he didn't trust the non-human crew, he never wanted to experiment on them and/or exterminate their race. "

"Nobody on this crew has had anything to do with the more extreme facets of Cerberus, Shepard. And really, is this really any different than when Pressly insisted that Garrus couldn't be trusted, simply because he had fought the turians during the first contact war?"

The calm reasoning pierces through the haze of frustration and anxiety, and Shepard feels the fight start to drain out of her like a slow bleed, she blinks slowly at her half empty glass, "I'm not even sure where to start with them...I mean, you, you I trust, but the rest of them..."

"Start at the beginning commander, start with giving them a chance to prove themselves," pressing the stopper into the top of the bottle, Chakwas returns it to the drawer. "At the risk of being presumptuous, you might want to start with Miss Chambers. You were...rather harsh with her earlier," Chakwas eyes Shepard with the careful consideration of someone about to poke a bear with a stick, "in all honesty, I don't think she meant any harm. It wasn't her fault she entered into the situation completely ignorant of what to expect."

The censure in Chakwas' voice makes Shepard flinch, "well I wasn't about to explain to her why Garrus was here, I don't care what her position is, that's a breach of trust I'm not willing to take."

"I wasn't suggesting it," a slight smile crosses Chakwas' face, "but I am suggesting that when you give blank orders, don't be surprised when people display the free thought and curiosity to explore the reasoning behind them. Besides," Chakwas added, "I was actually pleasantly surprised by how well Garrus responded to her to start with."

"Seriously," Shepard gestured around the med bay, "this is 'responding well'?"

"He didn't back down from her, I think to start with he was just a bit confused as to why she was talking to him. Everything was a bit one-sided, but amicable enough until she touched him. And even then, he was more scared of his own reaction than he was of Kelly"

"She still shouldn't have been here! " Shepard shook her head, "are orders that difficult to comprehend? I mean, really?"

"I've worked with Kelly for months commander, she is very hands on...but she is dedicated to patient care. She meant well...and it started promisingly, all I know is that after a few minutes she did reach out to touch him and he lashed out at her, then panicked." Gesturing around at the field of debris, Chakwas shrugged, "the rest is... very destructive history."

Draining the last of the brandy, Shepard set her glass down with a sharp click. "I'll talk to her, but I hope you'll forgive me if I decide to sleep on it first." Scrubbing a hand through her hair, Shepard shook her head, "I really, really need a long, quiet shower and some rack time."

"Agreed," Chakwas nodded genially, "just keep it in mind commander. Now if you can wait a moment, I'll send some things with you for Garrus."

The room was awash in an odd, tinted, ambient light. There was no music, but an odd cacophony of sounds issued from hidden speakers around the room. The hum of air cars, the heavier growl of larger loaders, Shepard could hear the chime of street carts, all overlaid with a chatter of language she didn't recognize. Garrus was sprawled out on the couch, as relaxed as Shepard had seen him since she had brought him to the Normandy, head tilted up into the slightly hazy light, eyes closed.

Shepard almost felt like an intruder in her own quarters, yet couldn't help but regret her intrusion when EDI softened the light to its usual setting, and the odd white noise of street sounds faded into silence. "What was that?" Shepard questioned, watching Garrus struggle to lever himself upright on one stick-like arm.

"That was an atmospheric and auditory playback of Ardran memorial park, Cipritine, Palaven, recorded approximately fifteen hours ago." It was hard to tell, but Shepard sensed a slight edge of smugness in the AI's voice before its holographic image blinked off.

"Do you miss it?" Shepard eased the bag of medical supplies Chakwas had loaded her with, onto the low table, extracting the rolled heating blanket and tossing it onto the couch.

"Sometimes," Garrus snagged the blanket almost the second Shepard had put it down, "I haven't been there in a long time...but sometimes..I miss the light...the warmth."

" This mission is critical, but if you wanted, we could swing by for a short visit?"

"NO!" Garrus blurted, shaking his head so vehemently that he raised a hand to the bandage grafts on his face and throat, "...ow."

"Ok, ok, " raising her hands in defeat, Shepard retrieved a bottle of pills from the table and shook two into her palm, " Chakwas wants you taking these every four hours, and apparently I'm supposed to change the bandaging on your face tomorrow." Holding her hand out with the pills, Shepard waited patiently as Garrus fidgeted, eyes flicking from her hand to her face, until finally he extended a shaky, tentative hand far enough for her to tip the medication into his grasp. "There's water here as well," digging out a tube of purified water, Shepard set it down on the table. "I'm in serious need of a shower, just give me a yell if you need anything."

It always astounded Shepard just how standing under falling water could improve ones outlook on a day. By the time the water had run to tepid, and the small stall was so filled with steam it was like breathing smoke, Shepard felt better than she had in days. Garrus was already asleep when she padded out into the main room, curled up as best he could on the couch, forearms over his face, completely wrapped in the heated blanket, with the exception of one protruding foot.

"Maybe this was a good idea, after all," Shepard sat down cautiously on the arm of the couch, voice almost as soft as the ever present hum of the ship's engines. "God, Garrus...I have no idea if I'm doing the right thing here, or if I'm just being selfish...Just another person taking control away from you, but I'm not willing to give up...I just wish I knew if I was helping you or not." When the oblivious turian didn't even twitch, Shepard very lightly tickled the exposed hide of his protruding foot, smiling when he unconsciously curled his toes, and the foot disappeared into the blanket cocoon.

The coolness of the sheets against her skin dragged Shepard down into sleep faster than she had expected, though she floated in a half drowse for a while, lulled by the hum of Normandy's white noise, and the soft rasp of Garrus' breathing. The reflected light from the aquariums bathed the room in a haze of blue, and when the first ragged scream jolted her awake, for a moment her sleep fogged mind could only see the pale ultramarine arc of Alchera, and her chest seized, lungs spasming desperately for oxygen. Then Garrus screamed again, a ragged, gut wrenching keen of fear and pain, and the room was just a room again, the icy glare of the planet fading into the familiar. Startled heart slamming in her chest with a surge of adrenaline Shepard lunged up, hand fumbling for the light panel.

Garrus is sitting upright, blanket pooled around his waist, eyes wild and fixed on something only he can see. Shepard bangs her shin sharply on the low table as she runs to him, swearing at the sting as she hops the last few steps. As she reaches him, Garrus brings his arms up to protect his head, wailing "don't, please don't!" until he trails off into a shriek that makes Shepard's stomach clench. She remembers Decker, leering as he admitted _'never heard anyone scream like he did when we cut him_,' and wants to be sick.

Talking to him yields no response, and as Garrus makes a horrible guttural noise in his throat, entire body wracked with muscle tremors, Shepard resorts to grabbing him, shaking roughly until he wakes up with a shivering gasp. His eyes track wildly around the room for a second, fixing on Shepard with a kind of desperation, "S...Shepard?" he half whimpers, "I...I.. t..thought..."

"You're OK, that's all over," Shepard gently touches the back of her hand to his cheek, glad when he doesn't shy away, but almost immediately presses into her touch. Shepard was sure turians couldn't cry as humans and asari could, but the shuddering gasp Garrus takes, as a choked vibrato tone issues from his throat is immediately, universally recognizable.

"I'm s...sorry, I wanted...wanted to f..fight...but... ...they made me," Garrus scrapes his clipped talons against the hide of his hands, eyes terribly clear as he gasps out, "so m...much blood Shepard...there wa..was so much blood."

" Aww fuck, Garrus...," Shepard feels horribly helpless, as Garrus folds his arms against his chest, hunching forward as that awful gasping keen shakes his thin body. "I wish I could fix this," Shepard blinks away the sharp sting of tears in her eyes, "goddammit."

Garrus shifts slightly, and to Shepard's shock, leans forward slowly, until his head rests lightly against her shoulder, hitching breath hot against the skin of her neck. For a moment Shepard freezes, then tentatively shifts the hand on his cheek until she is cupping the back of his neck, gently smoothing her fingers over the soft hide and protruding spinal guard plates. Garrus' dual toned cries pierce through Shepard's head in a way that almost hurts. Tentatively she reaches up with her other arm, cradling him lightly as he keens out his grief into her shoulder.

"Shhh, shhhh," Shepard tries to soothe Garrus with soft wordless croons of comfort, rocking him slightly. Not for the first time she wishes for five minutes alone with Garm, Kuril, Decker, and any of the host of faceless mercs who viewed the breaking of a bright, young mind and spirit as some kind of sport.

Eventually, after what feels like hours, Garrus' gasping cries ease. Exhausted he slumps against Shepard in a tangle of warm, bony limbs, head still resting against her shoulder. Shifting carefully into a more comfortable position, Shepard strokes a hand softly over Garrus' mutilated fringe, relishing the feel of his rapid pulse against her shoulder, his calmed breath huffing lightly against her ear.

Resting her head wearily against the back of the couch, Shepard slips into a hazy, half dose. Garrus jerks into a half waking nightmare several times, but relaxes almost immediately as Shepard hushes him gently. By the time Shepard's omni-tool hums a silent alarm against her arm, her eyes feel like they are full of sand, her limbs heavy and tired as she drags her armor on over the durable under weave. Garrus wakes when she stomps one foot to settle her heavy boot more comfortably. He blinks hazily up at her, and wordlessly gulps the pills she hands him, before curling up again, blue eyes sliding shut as Shepard clips her weapons into their carry frames.

As the shuttle drops away from the Normandy, Shepard ignores Miranda's frown of disapproval as she keys in an omni-tool request for her hardsuit to dispense a dose of stims. Leaning against the cool metal of the shuttle's hull, Shepard grimaces at the slight burn, as the stim dose flickers through her nervous system, and hopes the mission will be a short one.


	11. We all fall down

Like ruined paint on a waterlogged canvas, Shepard's days start to run together in an only vaguely recognizable blur. She goes through her missions on automatic, exhaustion showing telltale in her aim and speed; there is only so much a shot of stims can cover, and at this point they serve only to raise her heart rate, doing nothing to clear the fog from her mind and body. She knows it's stupid, that eventually the risks are going to catch up with her...but there seems to be no way out. No solution that is cost free.

As Garrus' shattered body heals, his mind seems to fragment worse. Dr. Chakwas explains that it was not unexpected. That during any traumatic experience the mind concentrates first on the damage to the physical form, ensuring survival, before attempting to deal with the mental and emotional repercussions. Shepard listens numbly, the words trickling like sand through her tired brain, relishing the hot burn of Gardner's acrid coffee on her tongue, and the slight surge of caffeine through her body. In a quilt sick way she dreads returning to her quarters. Dreads having to watch Garrus pacing the room with jittery, nervous energy, eyes fever bright as he stares down horrors only he can see.

Sometimes Garrus seems almost normal, and that's the hardest time to deal with. Its those flashes of sanity, or normalcy that cut at Shepard the deepest...a glimpse of her friend, of what he could have been before Omega chewed him up, and spat him back torn and broken.

Shepard had always wondered if her and Garrus would have progressed beyond friendship if he had stayed aboard the Normandy. Now, when he looks at her with a flash of his old self, combined with a heartbreaking vulnerability, she wonders even more about the could-have-beens. What could they have become, or would it have changed nothing at all? Would she have still spiraled into oblivion in the cerulean haze of Alchera, would Garrus have still chased his own obsession into the hungry jaws of Omega? In a way, Shepard hopes it would have changed nothing, to think otherwise was too cruel to imagine.

"Where's Wrex?" he had asked during a moment of lucidity, one thin hand holding a piece of Shepard's armor he had been helping clean. "He was going to Tuchanka I think, try to beat some sense into his people..."

Shepard starts to tell him, but she sees the telltale muscle tremors start in his arm, and she has to turn away before she has to watch the sanity drain from his eyes. He drops the armor like it burned him, lunging back from her, gasping for air as the panic sweeps through him, leaving him shivering in a corner while Shepard quietly racks her half cleaned gear, and tries not to scream.

The nights are hell. For five nights, Shepard drags herself up when Garrus screams out in the grip of yet another horrible memory. His broken voice is terrible to hear, begging phantom tormentors for some scrap of mercy; and Shepard holds him while he shivers and cries, mind wracked by inescapable memories. On the sixth night, Shepard simply cannot force herself to rise, and listens, exhausted and riddled with guilt, while Garrus wails out his torment alone. Eventually he cries himself into an delirious half sleep, and turns away from Shepard when she tries to rouse him in the morning.

That morning Shepard had wanted to do nothing more than find a quiet corner, but a commercial transport frigate had chosen that moment to run afoul of batarian slavers, and Shepard had assured the desperate ships captain that the Normandy would be inbound within the hour. Joker brings the Normandy out of its silent stealth mode once the transport is in sight, the ugly bulk of the Batarian ship mantled over the smaller vessel like a bulbous hawk over its prey. The haze of vented oxygen brightens the stark black of the surrounding space in elegant, but deadly, swirls of vapor.

Resistance is immediate the second they board the transport. Batarian shock troopers, varren snarling at their heels, hit them the moment they clear the first airlock. The heavy boom of their assault weaponry shakes Shepard somewhat out of her daze, adrenaline pushing the bone deep weariness aside as she ducks behind a bulkhead to avoid a rattling hail of flechette rounds. Without instruction, Jack drags their opponents from cover, laughing high and wild, as Grunt strafes the twisting forms with incendiary fire. The broken forms of enemies, blackened and burned, twist and multiply in Shepard's vision, and she triggers another round of stims from her hardsuit, keeping cover until the burn sharpens her aim and eyesight.

The corridors and cargo storage spaces of the transport are the usual horror shows of a slave capture. The batarians have little use for the aged, the infirm, or the very young, only those able to be sold immediately are taken. Shepard tries to look impassively over the pile of discarded bodies tossed into a storage room; but she knows the image of streaks of blood on a doll clutched in a baby-soft, blue hand, and the way the turian boy was still sheltering his little sister even in death, would come back to haunt. Even Grunt was silent, his gaze strangely contemplative, and Shepard suspected that the krogan, more than any other race, would view the slaughter of children as a consummate waste.

The screams of the captives draws them to the main cargo hold. By the time they are in position, Shepard is starting to feel the rough burn of muscle fatigue overwhelming her stim doses, body simply pressed beyond reasonable limits. Perhaps that's why, as they move forward, Shepard forgets about the small electrical bay the ship schematics had showed on the right.

The first sign that anything is wrong is when the burning weight of an electrified submission net scores against Shepard's face, burning hot enough to blister as it tears down her kinetic barriers with a hiss of static feedback. Clawing at the electrified monofillament threads until they fall apart around her, Shepard spins to face the slaver behind her, staggering as a sudden impact against her chest rocks her backwards. The batarian goes down shrieking in a blast of incendiary shotgun ammo, body twisting and cracking in the sudden flare of armor warping heat.

Shepard turns to thank Grunt for his intervention, when she sees Jack staring at her, tattooed face pale, plush mouth set in an almost comical 'O'. As Shepard starts to shout out to the biotic, asking her whats wrong, she realizes her mouth is strangely full, watching stunned as she spits a gout of crimson across the floor.

_What?_

There's a strange pressure on her chest, and Shepard looks down at the heavy blades protruding through her armor with an odd detached fascination.

_That's not good..._

Shepard hears an odd thump, and realizes numbly that it was the sound of her knees hitting the metal of the bay floor, sending a shock through her body. She tries to keep a grip on her assault rifle, but it spins out of her grasp, and blankly she thinks Garrus would give her shit for handling a weapon like that.

_Oh god Garrus...not again...I can't breath..._

Grunt is grabbing her, surprisingly gentle with those big paw like hands. Shepard can hear Jack yelling something, but her voice bleeds into a haze of static, and the thick, coppery tang of blood fills Shepard's mouth, spattering against her chin. The biometric warnings built into her hardsuit are screaming a warning, the tone blurring into a distant buzz.

_I'm so sorry Garrus...so sorry..._

Shepard can feel Grunt running, his desperate, jouncing steps making the weight on her chest double. She tries to tell him it hurts, but her voice wont work, and all she can manage is a wet kind of rasp. She thinks of Garrus waiting for her, and her throat chokes with tears and blood. The gray walls are bleeding into darkness, running like ink in Shepard's fading eyes.

_This is going to be so hard on you...be strong..._

The light panels on the roof are blurring into a haze of colors, fading to encroaching darkness at the edges, Shepard's head flops limply against Grunt's bicep. Her jaw flops limp and she bites her tongue, feeling the distant sharp sting, and the hot wetness of more blood in her mouth. Grunt is yelling, his desperate voice like a jumble of falling rocks in Shepard's skull.

_You never knew...I wanted to tell you..._

Its Alchera all over again. Shepard can feel the numbness starting to spread from her hands, like dipping her limbs in ice water. Her breath stutters faintly in her chest, lungs heavy and unresponsive, each wet breath a monumental effort. The hiss of the airlock sounds like a howling roar; she sees a hazy flash of gray, and Chakwas's hands are rough and hurried against her skin. Shepard wants to tell her 'take care of him,' but only a mist of blood comes from her mouth.

_I need you to live...because..._

Distantly Shepard can hear the shrill whine of machinery, someone is fumbling at the pressure seals on her armor, cutting away the crimson clotted underweave, peeling it back like a second, bloodsoaked, skin The medical lights are dot like in her vision, fading into the distance in a surging wave of black. A distant monitor screams a jangling tone of alarm, and all Shepard has left are those torturous could-have-beens.

_I think..._

Mordin's voice is a distant babble. Shepard smiles a grim, bloody smile; Mordin will take care of him. There's a slight sting against her elbow, and Shepard fights the anesthetic as it drags her down into the waiting darkness, somewhere in that dark is the curve of a sunrise over Alchera. Waiting...again...

_I love you..._


	12. Spiral

It shouldn't hurt if you're dead. That was the first, confused thought that wormed its way through Shepard's mind. Waking up to the rhythmic tones of medical machinery, and the afterglow of too-bright lights through her eyelids was strangely familiar. For a second she half expected to hear Miranda's strident voice over the comm system,ordering her up out of bed, to go retrieve a pistol from the bin in the corner. Somewhere during that thought, the darkness rolled over her, and tumbled her back into unconsciousness; when she awoke for the second time, the pain was less immediate and more of a dull, hazy ache.

The room swam slowly into focus when Shepard opened her eyes. The overhead lights made her wince, then groan as she turned her head, triggering a sharp pain in her chest.

"Hey, uh, Chakwas said you're not supposed to move, so could you, you know... not move."

Blinking her eyes repeatedly, Shepard crinkled her brow as she tried to focus on the figure seated by the bed,"Joker?" The name came out slightly slurred, and Shepard grimaced, her mouth felt sticky and foul, like something dead had taken up residence. "Why are you here?...who's flying the ship?..."

Tugging reflexively at the brim of his cap, the pilot shrugged. "I'm here because Chakwas needed some time away from trying to keep your insides, well...inside. As for who's flying the ship," Joker folded his arms sulkily, "that obnoxious piece of overpriced software is doing that. So don't be surprised if we wind up in a gas giant, or a binary star, or..."

"It would be counterproductive for me to plot any course that would result in structural damage to the Normandy, Mr. Moreau." EDI's calm synthetic voice echoed slightly through the med bay. "As well as countermanding the facet of my programing that speaks to the preservation of organic life, such actions would result in the destruction of my own core."

Joker raised a middle finger in the general direction of the security monitor. "Yeah, and programing always works, lets call Tali and ask her all about that."

"Alright, enough," Shepard wishes her voice had come out more commanding, less quavery and small. She probes gently at the thick swath of bandaging across her chest, flinching a little at the dull throb. "Where," the word comes out as a low rasp, and she clears her throat and tries again, "where's Garrus?"

"Oh, uh...you know what," to Shepard's surprise, Joker immediately levers himself carefully up out of his chair. "Chakwas is really going to want to know you're awake, I'll go find her," and before Shepard could protest, Joker was headed for the door with his awkward hunched gait.

Gritting her teeth, Shepard tries to sit up, struggling to swing her legs over the side of the bed; falling back with a gasp of pain when the movement triggers a wave of red hot agony through her chest. The heart-rate on the adjacent monitor accelerated, as her body protested the painful movements with a surge of adrenaline.

"What are you trying to do?!" Chakwas runs the last few steps, and her hands are cool and firm as she presses Shepard back "for god's sake Shepard, you aren't ready to be up yet!"

Allowing herself to be eased back against the bed, Shepard pants as she watches Chakwas fuss over the readouts on the monitors, allowing herself a slight sigh of relief when the doctor triggers another dose of something that is blessedly cool and numbing. "Wha...what happened?" Shepard scowls as her traitorous tongue stumbles over the simple words, "how's Garrus?"

' lips purse into a thin line, "as for what happened, we very nearly lost you again Commander, if it wasn't for the biological upgrades Cerberus implanted...Grunt and Jack brought you back to the Normandy as fast as they could, but even then, there were a few days there where we weren't sure you were going to make it."

"Days?" Shepard mumbled hazily, "how long have I been..."

"You were injured nearly nine days ago," Chakwas' voice is oddly gentle.

"Nine days?!" Shepard repeats numbly, "but what...where's Garrus, he needs me..."

Chakwas' eyes are infinitely old and tired as she gently rests a hand on Shepard's shoulder, "I need you to rest now commander, you still have a lot of healing to do."

Shepard can feel the drugs slipping through her body, sweeping her mind under a wave of soothing black, and as her eyes slip shut, she can feel Chakwas' hand rest briefly against her cheek, and her soft whisper, "I'm so sorry, Shepard."

When Shepard woke again, the lights of the med bay were dimmed to night cycle standards, chair standing as an empty sentinel by her bedside. Slowly testing her mobility with a twitch of fingers, and then arms, she was pleased to feel that the sharp, hot agony had faded, replaced with a heavy sort of ache. The bandaging was lighter, the drains and shunts removed and she was disturbed that somehow she had slept through that change. Carefully, remembering the last painful attempt, Shepard levers herself up on her elbows, wincing at the twinge of stiff muscles and healing flesh. But that's the difference this time, its the familiar ache of healing muscle and knitting skin~not the sharp agony of fresh wounds.

The floor is cold against her bare feet, as Shepard swings her legs over the side of the bed, stopping to fumble the leads and monitor tabs from her skin. The room sways alarmingly when she stands up, bright spots flickering behind her eyes as the dimness of looming medical equipment swims in her vision. Her steps are uncertain and slightly clumsy, and Shepard leans heavily on the counter as she makes her way along the bay to ' private terminal, hissing when she drops into a chair forcefully enough to jar half healed injuries. The terminal screen pulses to life when it senses her motion, and for a shocked minute Shepard stares at the date flickering in the lower corner. Doctor Chakwas had said she had been unconscious for nine days, but this date suggested an additional five.

Without the support of the counter, Shepard is panting by the time she stops to lean against the door, by the time she reaches the elevator, her knees are shaking with the strain. The elevator has never seemed slower, leaning against the back wall for support Shepard tries to calm the ice cold flitting of the butterflies in her stomach, the crawling sense of dread that began the second Joker didn't have a snarky response to her inquiry about Garrus.

The first sign that something is very wrong is when Shepard presses her palm to the door panel outside her quarters, watching in confusion as the door slowly grinds open in a series of ratcheting jerks, finally failing at the halfway point with a screech of overstressed metal. Sliding sideways through the now narrow doorway, she stands momentarily stunned as the overhead lights flick on in response to her entry.

The first thing that registers is the diamond sharp gleam of glass. The display case that was supposed to house those frivolous models Shepard had bought on a whim was gutted, the frame warped, and the glass scattered across the floor in a glittering mosaic. Its the blood she notices next, dried to a near black on the floor and wall, 'arterial spray' the analytical part of her mind supplies, as she stares blankly at the thin arc of dried blood staining the gunmetal gray of the siding. There's too much blood on the floor, and Shepard stumbles away from it until she bumps into the opposite wall, and her knees buckle, sending her to her hands and knees with a choking cry of protest.

Everything seems to center in her gut, and Shepard gags a thin stream of bile onto the glass covered floor, vaguely aware of the shards scoring thin, bloody trails across her knees and palms. Rocking back onto her heels, she scrubs a forearm across her mouth, feeling the hot trails of tears on her cheeks, stinging in the open fissures of her reconstruction scars.

"I did this" she whimpers, hating herself for the weakness. Shepard remembers the flash of pride and understanding in Garrus' eyes when she told him to 'remember that feeling,' as Saleon's bloody corpse cooled at his feet. She had trained him to be a killer, she realized: encouraging his reckless idealism, sending him for spectre training...Sickly Shepard thought that she had set him on this path of destruction as much as the mercenaries of Omega had.

Someone is screaming, a horrible rasping sound, like something dying, and Shepard realizes its her. The howls hurt something deep inside, and she wraps her arms around her chest, grieving for herself, for that naive, idealistic C-sec officer she shaped into a doomed vigilante, for those faceless loyalists he had led to their deaths in the streets of Omega.

She doesn't hear the crunch of footsteps on glass until wraps a blanket around her shoulders, an accented voice cutting through her hysterical grief. "No, Shepard, no, its not what you think!"

Shepard stares blankly at Chakwas for a long moment, breath hitching in her throat, and eyes blurred and burning. "W...what?" she gasps out, not entirely sure she had heard the doctor correctly.

"I know this looks bad, and it is, but it isn't as bad as you are thinking! Physically Garrus will be fine." Chakwas' voice is forceful enough to snap Shepard out of her near hysteria, and she doesn't even protest when Chakwas pulls her to her feet, tutting over the thin lines of glass cuts on her knees, as she coaxes Shepard down the narrow stairs and seats her on the bed.

"Physically?" Shepard gestures bleakly at the liberal splashes of dried blood, "what happened here?"

"First off commander, you have to understand...we very nearly lost you. Again," There is an odd hollow quality to the doctor's voice, and Shepard blinks in surprise as Chakwas continues. "The injuries you sustained would have killed anyone without the physical upgrades Cerberus rebuilt you with. As it was, we still weren't sure we could save you; and I'm ashamed to admit, in the chaos of getting you back on the Normandy and into surgery...I forgot that, as usual, EDI had set it up so that your comm audio played for Garrus."

Turning her face away from Shepard's accusatory stare, Chakwas nods toward the door, and following her gaze Shepard realizes that the the reason the door hadn't opened was that the entire interior panel was warped. " EDI kept the door locked down while we did our best with you, it may sound cruel, but the last thing we needed was a hysterical turian in the med bay." Shepard flinched at Chakwas' words; staring at the dents and blood smeared scratches scoring the door panel, trying not to think of Garrus hurling his frail body against the metal, scrabbling with broken talons until his fingers left streaks of blood.

"Once you were as stable as we could make you, EDI released him." Chakwas smiled slightly, "you would have been so proud of him, he walked into the med bay like he owned the place; he was obviously scared, but he never hesitated, and he never left your side for days." Turning away, Chakwas runs a hand through her grey hair, her face crumpling into lines of exhaustion. "We were running low on medical supplies, the closest council planet was Illium, so XO Lawson ordered Joker to dock at Nos Astra as soon as possible. Thirteen hours out, you flat-lined."

"I...died?" Shepard doesn't say the 'again' that hangs turgid on her tongue, but she can see the shadows in the doctor's eyes, and knows she heard it anyway.

"Yes," Chakwas says softly, "you were dead for seven minutes, thirty six seconds." She clears her throat, spine stiffening as she grasps for her professionalism, "Garrus...reacted badly, ever since you rescued him, its been clear you had become his...everything. It was obvious he blamed himself for your injuries, watching you die was devastating. I did the only thing I really could at the time," Chakwas' voice is defensive, "I had him sedated and returned to your quarters...I never thought..."

"You left him here alone?" Shepard couldn't keep the frustration out of her voice, "after that?"

"You have to understand Shepard, we were trying to save you, that was our priority!" Chakwas paced the room, boots clicking against glass fragments. "Fortunately EDI continued monitoring him, and was able to respond quickly..."

"Respond to what exactly?"

"In retrospect, I should have used a heavier sedative dose...I should have done more, I just never stopped to think." Chakwas flashed Shepard a glance, heavy with guilt and regret. "Garrus came out of the sedative thinking you were dead, that somehow he was responsible...he smashed out the display glass, and slashed his throat with it."

Shepard closed her eyes, pressing shaky fingers into her eye sockets, feeling the pressure as a dull ache, and the hot burn of blocked tears. "Where is he now?"

"Dr. Solus responded immediately, without his expertise on turian physiology..." Chakwas' voice trails off, her usual curt professionalism fading into uncertainty.

"I said, where is he now?" Shepard loathes the slight waver in her voice, and swallows down the lump in her throat.

"Shepard...you may not agree..."

"Where is he Karin?"Shepard watches the doctor flinch at the use of her first name.

"It was ultimately XO Lawson's decision, although, to be honest...I agreed with her."

Levering herself painfully up off the bed, Shepard feels the first stirrings of real anger. "What have you done?"

"Shepard, we simply couldn't care for Garrus here...his mind was fragmenting, beyond anything I could even begin to treat!" Chakwas' face creases in genuine regret, and somehow that only makes the cold roil of anger in Shepard worse. "When we docked at the Nos Astra port, Garrus was transferred to a psychiatric medical center...I'm sorry Shepard, I wish there had been another alternative."

"Damn you," Shepard grits her teeth, trying to focus her anger, to ignore the part of her that was wailing in grief and horror to think of Garrus, probably drugged, probably restrained, almost certainly confused and alone. "How could you have done this?!"


	13. Figurehead

"Miranda!" Shepard spat the XO's name like an epithet, her chest was aching fiercely, and, clenching her fists, she relished the sharp bite of her nails into the flesh of her palms. It was a kind of helpless outrage that Shepard was unfamiliar with, one that demanded a target, no matter how rational their decisions had been.

Shepard had expected guilt, or at least defensiveness in Miranda's face, so it came as a surprise when she simply nodded coolly, waving Shepard to a chair in front of her desk. "Its good to see you up commander, you had me quite worried."

"So worried that you took the first opportunity to disobey a direct order!" Shepard refused to show the relief she felt as she sank into the proffered chair, hoping that the desk was high enough that Miranda couldn't see her legs shaking. Her body was protesting vehemently about being expected to move again so soon.

"I disobeyed no direct order, Shepard. Yes, I went against your wishes; but I was acting captain at the time, and my decisions were based on what was best for this crew, this ship, and this mission." As she nervously shuffled a scattering of datapads into an orderly stack, Miranda's voice lowered. "I know this is not easy for you to accept, but I honestly believe Garrus will be better off in a treatment facility. Keeping him here wasn't helping either of you"

"He was improving!" Shepard snapped, frustration sharpening her tone, "who knows what harm you have done by sending him away!"

"Was he improving, Shepard? Or was he simply clinging harder to you, because he was becoming completely unable to cope on his own?" Ignoring Shepard's furious glare, Miranda continued. "What happened to Garrus was horrific, but keeping him here was of no benefit to him, you, or the mission you seem to have forgotten about."

"I could have explained it to him, or he could have remained on board under sedation..." Shepard dragged her hand through her hair in irritation, becoming aware of just how unruly it must appear. "Also, 'forgetting the mission'? How can you accuse me of that?!"

"You were brought back for the sole purpose of bringing down the collectors, and we nearly lost you to a band of slavers, simply because you were too exhausted to concentrate." Shaking her head, Miranda pushed herself away from the desk, pacing the room with her typical languid grace. "As for keeping him on the Normandy...I would personally consider that nothing more than a selfish cruelty." Raising her hands as Shepard surged to her feet, fury etched into her face, Miranda stepped back, "think, Shepard, stop and think! To keep Garrus here, you would have to sedate him to the point he was no longer a danger to himself or others; what kind of life is that? You take that choice from him, along with any hope of him mentally surviving this, and you are no better than the people who did this to him in the first place!

Shepard's face flushed an ugly red, the flash of crimson cybernetics beneath her skin making her look hellish, Miranda watched impassively as the commander hauled herself to her feet, lips twisting in a mixture of rage and pain. She was just opening her mouth, when her skin faded to a sickly pallor and she slowly slumped back into her chair, "is that what I've been doing?" she muttered sickly, "was all this some kind of selfish attempt to prove that I could fix everything?"

"No," Miranda's cool voice softened, a rare trace of gentleness tinging her tone. "Your actions have been both understandable and commendable; but more people than Garrus need you now. I'm sorry, but you don't have the luxury of sentiment, Shepard, too much is at stake.

Trying to ignore the pity in Miranda's eyes, Shepard nodded mutely, trying to will away the horrible sick feeling that she was abandoning Garrus when he needed her most. The cold logic of the XO's argument had deflated the hopeless rage over her decision, leaving just a heavy sense of failure. Shepard struggled to not think of Garrus, confused and alone, as lost as she herself was. Without him, the herculean mission seemed to loom insurmountably in her future, almost ludicrous in its scale.

"If it helps," Miranda leaned her hip against the desk, "he was placed in an excellent private facility, the not inconsiderable cost of which was fully covered by your friend Dr. T'soni."

Shepard blinked at that, nodding vaguely. "Thank you," she winces at how flat her voice sounds.

"When you are feeling up to it Shepard, the Illusive Man would like to speak with you...we have had early warning of a colony that is vulnerable to Collector predation, the human settlement on Horizon." Miranda retrieves a datapad, handing it to Shepard, who accepts it with numb fingers, trying to focus on the statistics and population graphs that scroll past.

With a wordless nod, Shepard straightened. The ache of healing tissue seems less, and yet the pain grabs at her more, settling in her body like a poison. Irrationally all she wants to do is order Joker to set course for Illium, to ignore the threat on Horizon, to make sure that Garrus doesn't wake up alone, screaming in the grip of some nightmare she is too far away to sooth for him. The colony schematics blink balefully at her from the datapad screen, a flickering reminder of all that could be lost, all that she was needed for. Stifling a sigh, Shepard taps the datapad on the desk, forcing steel into her eyes as she meets Miranda's carefully neutral gaze, "tell the Illusive man I'll be ready to speak with him in a minute."

During her second week of Alliance basic, Shepard had been paired with fellow recruit Baruti Ankhol, for an exercise in hand-to-hand training against a larger opponent. With a good hundred pounds, and at least twenty-five inches on Shepard, Baruti had ended the match with one punch, a particularly effective uppercut to Shepard's stomach. Shepard could still remember that feeling, like all the oxygen had been sucked from the room, the feeling of gaping helplessly for air that just didn't exist anymore. She had felt it in the frigid, cerulean atmosphere of Alchera, and again when she watched Ashley Williams walk away from her on Horizon.

Horizon was one of those places Shepard just knew would find its way into her head during the night; something about the sheer normalcy of the colony made the scattering of frozen settlers, faces trapped forever in voiceless screams, so much worse.

From the moment the Illusive man had mentioned Ashley's name, Shepard had thrown herself into mission prep with an almost desperate intensity, pushing her physical rehab with the same dedication that Mordin showed to the seeker deterrent. The frantic activity managed to partially pull her mind away from Illium, from the fact that every comm-buoy they passed she put through a call to Liara, but got nothing but platitudes and excuses from Nyxeris. The Lanastia Clinic proved similarly unhelpful, refusing to give out patient information over the comm network, instead advocating that Shepard make a local appointment to speak with Matriarch Lanastia directly. The sympathetic receptionist did let her leave a voice message for Garrus though, but Shepard froze when the dead air of the recorder dropped silence over the comm unit, eventually stuttering through a horribly awkward message that left her red faced and slightly guilty.

Then Horizon itself, and the adrenaline rush of combat that drowned out everything else. Zaeed and Grunt had accompanied her, picked specifically for the fact that they showed no hint of the pity or timid concern that so many other of the crew showed. There had also been the fact that Miranda had clearly assumed she was joining the ground team, and the surprise, followed by disapproval, stamped on her perfect face, gave Shepard a slight, petty thrill. Although he didn't say anything, the smirk on Zaeed's craggy, scarred face made it obvious he had noticed the snub, and was amused by it.

Ashley's distrust, and obvious disdain had hit Shepard like a dash of ice water to the face. Somehow she hadn't even considered that Ash would do anything but believe and trust her, hadn't considered the passed time that to her felt like weeks, not years. It was hard to think that the last time Shepard had sat with Ashley in the main hangar, swapping war stories, anecdotes and rifle mods, had been over two years ago.

Shepard could clearly remember the Sr1's last stop at the Citadel. Garrus had been leaving for Spectre training, Tali returning to the Migrant fleet, and Wrex had plans to travel to Tuchanka; so they had all met on board for drinks, and a last farewell. Although it was obvious Ash would never been a big fan of turians in general, she and Garrus had worked together long enough to engage in some manner of camaraderie; Shepard could remember leaning against a crate, laughing helplessly as Ashley tried unsuccessfully to explain the concepts behind Halloween to a completely baffled Garrus. Tali had been in near hysterics, occasionally trying to interject, but dissolving into fits of giggles each time Ash insisted that _'no dammit, you didn't rob food from people's houses, they GAVE you treats.'_

Staring at her own face in the mirror, Shepard tried to reconcile her image with the Cerberus traitor that Ashley saw. Peeling her sweaty underweave off her shoulders, she stared at the livid, bluish red scars crisscrossing the skin on her chest. From her collarbone, across the softer flesh of her left breast, the scar tissue leaves unfamiliar dimples and divots in her flesh; a countermeasure to the smooth expanse of skin on her hip, where her mind tells her she should have a pattern of old shrapnel damage.

Kicking the underweave free, she stepped under the spray of the shower; wondering if her mind is like her body. Did Cerberus smooth out scars there too, add in new whorls of personality, of compliance? Sliding down to sit with her back against the tile, Shepard wonders if Ashley was right, maybe this wasn't her anymore.

The half healed cybernetic scars on her face sting slightly in the direct spray, and Shepard ducks her head away, resting her cheek against the wall. Her mind skims over all the decisions she's made since first scrabbling up from the blackness of a comatose state, poking at them like the unconscious tonguing of an abscess. She thinks of Saren, and his hopeless insistence that Sovereign wasn't in control of his every thought and reaction, and wonders if she is the same now. A Cerberus puppet figurehead with no real thoughts of her own...and if that is true, is she really questioning it, or is she programed to do so. This twists through her head like an ouroboros, until the water conservation systems kick in with a chastising bleep, and the water slows to a trickle, then stops altogether.

The Normandy was on course for Maitland, a human colony world currently considering a full allegiance with the Systems Alliance. Miranda had insisted on the importance of making an appearance, both to make sure of the safety of the colony, and to advocate they leave the uncertainty of the Terminus for the stability of Alliance control. Looking back, Shepard went over every reason Miranda had given her concerning the urgency of this particular appearance, every response she had made; analyzing and reanalyzing her own words, searching for that flicker of compliance, of capitulation. The Maitland trip seemed nothing more than waving a figurehead at a bunch of settlers; if the Alliance delegates, and their dreadnaught escort, were already there, then the chances of collector attack was miniscule.

Shepard slapped a palm down against the wet tile decisively. "EDI?" she called, knowing the AI was most likely monitoring her quarters, "I need to talk to Joker."

"Of course commander," there was a slight click as the comm transferred over, then Joker's voice was echoing off the tiles.

"Commander, I've got you flagged as wasting water here," the pilot announced cheerfully, "are you making a swimming pool up there? Are you going to invite Jack and Miranda?"

"Joker!" Shepard sighed, " I need to know how far out we are from Horizon."

"We left Horizon in our dust pretty fast commander, we're about three hours out..."

"The Normandy does not produce dust Mr. Moreau," EDI's resonant tone interrupted, "and there would not be enough residual particulate matter on the hull to produce dust when the Normandy entered atmospheric acceleration."

Laughing silently at Joker's audible huff of frustration, Shepard interjected before a fight ensued, "change of plans, our destination is no longer Maitland." Leaning back against the slick, cooling tile, Shepard's mouth curved into a smile. "We're heading for Illium."


	14. A cruel ocean

The Nos Astra docks were the usual multi-species blur of shoppers and merchants. Liara stood out by the simple fact that she was standing still, looking unusually uncomfortable as the throng parted around her. Shepard didn't regret leaving the tense atmosphere of the Normandy behind. Miranda had been furious about her decision to abandon the Maitland mission, and her ire had a souring effect on the crew in general. The gleeful exception was Jack, who had been practically giddy with delight at the concept of putting one in Cerberus' collective eye.

"Shepard", Liara began as soon as Shepard was in range, stepping forward to rest her hand on the commander's arm, "I am so sorry to have missed your calls, I was working on a Shadow Broker lead."

"Its fine Liara," once they had passed the main interior docks, the air became muggy with heat, and Shepard shrugged out of her jacket, slinging it over her shoulder as she followed Liara to the skycar parking. "I don't expect you to drop everything to deal with this. Did you have any luck?" she added over the low grumble of the engine starting.

"Not yet," the coldness in Liara's voice as she skillfully steered the skycar into the bustle of the Nos Astra airways, made Shepard look at her sharply; it was hard to see the naive and timid archeologist in her now.

"So, this Lanastia clinic, what do you know about it?" Shepard tapped her fingers anxiously against her thigh.

"Matriarch Lanastia is a highly respected doctor. Normally a Matriarch of her status would have returned to Thessia to teach and practice on her homeworld; however she chose to open a multi-species clinic here on Illium. She is well known for her alternate treatment methods." Liara pulled the skycar from the main traffic lanes, swinging north until the glint of the distant ocean could be seen. "The clinic specializes in rehabilitative patients, that is" Liara clarified, "it deals with patients with acquired psychiatric or physical issues, rather than genetic disorders. It is considered a medical facility rather than an institution," she added, "I really think it was the best option Shepard, I did a fair bit of research and..."

"I know you did your best with this Liara," Shepard interrupted, "and I'm grateful, Miranda said you paid for Garrus' admittance?"

"Do not concern yourself with that Shepard, I make a better living than I did as an archeologist, " Liara said with a slight smile as the guidance system gave a slight bleek and the aircar began a sharp decent.

The sleek, modern construction of glass and steel was not at all what Shepard had been expecting. Somehow vids had never progressed far enough to portray psychiatric centers as anything but brooding, gothic structures of old stone, sequestered behind forbidding iron gates. As she stepped from the aircar, Shepard craned her neck to look up at the reflective exterior glass, the first stirrings of fear replacing the fretful worry that had been churning in her gut since the docks.

The walkway was lined with tasteful, understated water sculptures, between each flew the flags of the galaxies' varied governments, the colorful banners stirring slightly in a soft breeze. The door however, flashed a red 'locked' symbol when they approached, a soothing automatic voice informing them that the Lanastia clinic visiting hours were between 10AM and 3PM, and to please return during standard visiting hours.

"Oh!" Liara fidgeted, looking embarrassed, "I am sorry Shepard, I never thought to check..."

Shepard considered going away for less than a second, then swung back her leg and angrily kicked the door, ignoring Liara's shocked exclamation. The electronic lock flickered, the automatic voice disintegrating into a garble of static; Shepard gave the door another teeth rattling boot, watching in satisfaction as a yellow security icon flashed into view above the lock. It was a testament to the in- house security system that they responded fast enough that Shepard hardly had time to step back, folding her arms, before the door slid open.

A harried looking human stared out at Shepard, her square face set in an expression of frustrated outrage. Angry brows furrowed under thick auburn bangs as she stared at the unwelcome newcomers; behind her, a turian with the emblem of a private security firm on his shoulder, fixed Shepard with a disapproving glare.

"I cant wait to hear the explanation on this," the woman sighed, resting her hands on ample hips.

"My name is Commander Shepard, I apologize for the ruckus, but I've come a long way to visit a friend here." Seeing that that statement hadn't made any kind of positive impact, she added: "I'm also a Council Spectre, and I would be happy to use that authority to access this facility, if that's what it takes."

"I know who you are commander,and I'm honestly surprised that you would consider yourself exempt from the rules that protect our patients."

"Look, I don't.." Shepard went to step forward, when the turian guard stepped up smartly, giving her a warning shake of his crested head, hand resting on the grip of a hip-holstered pistol, "...want to start trouble," she finished awkwardly. It took almost conscious effort not to drop her hand to her own weapon, and only the realization that a shootout in the parking lot wouldn't be beneficial to anyone, stopped her.

The awkward standoff continued for a long moment, until the light thump of footsteps interrupted them, and a small, slim asari padded into view. "Its alright Velin," she reached up to pat the turian on the shoulder, "commander Shepard is welcome here anytime."

"If you're sure, matriarch," the turian gave Shepard another suspicious glare as he stepped back, yellow marked mandibles pressed flat to his jaw.

Shepard couldn't prevent her eyes widening in surprise, the diminutive asari had none of the stately grace that was usually associated with matriarchs. Her speckled scalp was only of a height with Shepard's jaw, and she moved with a restless kind of energy. Her age showed in her face, lending a kind of warm dignity to her eyes, and a hint of steel to the line of her lightly freckled jaw. Dressed as she was in a simple geometric patterned tunic and pants, if it were not for the security guard's obvious deference, Shepard would almost have pegged her as a visitor, possibly even a patient.

"Matriarch...Lanastia?" Shepard glanced over at Liara, amused that she seemed as nonplussed as Shepard was.

"Commander Shepard, its a rare pleasure to meet you, I've been hoping you would come." Before Shepard could even begin to respond, the matriarch spun on her heel to greet Liara, "Dr. T'Soni, I am glad to meet you face to face, and would like to thank you again for selecting this facility. I do have much to discuss with commander Shepard. Haley here," Lanastia gestured to the human nurse, who was looking grumpy as the situation rapidly escaped her control, "will show you around. I would recommend stopping in the cafeteria and asking for some laoun tea, it comes all the way from Thessia, it's exquisite."

"Please follow me commander," without even pausing to see if she was being followed, Lanastia was striding through the door. Giving Liara a slightly resigned shrug, Shepard sprung forward to follow her.

The inside of the clinic was unlike anything Shepard had seen, it seemed to be constructed like a wheel, with the central hub being an expansive and diverse garden atrium, with fully grown trees reaching up to the upper stories. Hallways radiated outward like spokes, some lined with doors, others opening up into larger, open rooms and courtyards. Around the garden area, small bench lined niches provided some manner of calm privacy, and it was to one of these seats that Lanastia led Shepard, gesturing for her to take a seat.

"I know you are here to visit your turian friend, but I do ask you bear with me a moment," at Shepard's nod, the matriarch perched on the edge of her seat, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knee. "Turians are uniquely difficult species to treat, they do exceptionally well with purely physical rehab, partly because of their resilient physiology, and partly due to their drive to be 'useful'. They require little of the coercion sometimes required with physiotherapy patients, their own societal motivation provides that quite well. Psychological damage however," Lanastia raised somber eyes toward Shepard, and she felt her stomach turn to icy dread, "is very difficult to treat. As a general species, turians do not respond well to mental trauma; and I'm afraid your friend Garrus is no exception." Raising a delicate hand to forestall Shepard's inevitable questions, she continued, "theirs is a society that advocates personal responsibility and duty above all else. Individuals who perceive their trauma to be rooted in guilt or shame, will often remove themselves as a way of recompense to those they have wronged; similarly those who view their mental issues as a burden to those around them will suicide to prevent themselves from interrupting the duties of others."

"Where is Garrus?" Shepard couldn't even begin to keep the bleak dread out of her voice, although she managed to school her face into an impassive mask, screaming a howl of grief in her mind.

"When Garrus was brought here he was alternating between states of catatonic shock, and outbursts of defensive, and self destructive aggression. Ms. Lawson explained you had been injured in combat, and that your state had acted as a trigger for the further fragmentation of Garrus' psyche?" Lanastia quirked a questioning look at Shepard, who nodded.

"Apparently I flatlined at one point," Shepard clenched her hands around the edges of the bench, willing her hands to stop shaking. "But I was fine! Chakwas, Miranda...they would have told him that."

"Oh, they did, in fact both your ship's doctor and a young psychologist stayed here for days, helping as best they could. The problem is, Garrus was simply beyond comprehending at that point, I'm not even convinced he understood, never mind believed, what they were trying to tell him."

"So what are you saying? Is he..."

"Have you ever tried to walk into an ocean during a storm commander?" The unexpected question made Shepard frown, frustration building, she was just opening her mouth to ask what the point was when Lanastia stalled her by continuing. "The first few waves will make you stagger, but eventually one will sweep you off your feet, and then you are tumbled under. Every time you struggle to the surface, another wave will slam you down before you can quite get a breath. After a while, you cannot tell up from down, your lungs are filled with water, and you simply cannot fight the current any longer."

"Does this have a point?" Shepard grated harshly, "what does this have to do with Garrus?"

"His mind is like that ocean, commander. Garrus has experienced things no living creature should have to endure, and he is quite literally drowning in those memories; you were his driftwood, so to speak, something to cling to against a tide that should have, by all rights, swept him under. Without you, he did what any tired swimmer would do, he struggled against the waves as best he could, and when the tides became to strong, he simply gave up and let them take him."

"What does that mean?" Shepard asked hollowly, sickness rising in her, bile burning in the back of her throat, "Is he...gone?"

"Physically no, but six days ago he fell into a kind of catatonic coma. He is completely unresponsive to any outside stimuli, none of the treatments we have tried have had any effect." Shaking her head, Lanastia reached over to give Shepard's rigid hand a sympathetic squeeze, "I am sorry commander, I have some slight hope that I may be able to use you to reach him, provided you are willing...if not..."

" I want to see him," Shepard was aware her voice was flat, her mouth and mind similarly numb. "Right now."

"Of course commander, if you follow this hallway, "the matriarch pointed out a south-facing 'spoke', "Garrus is in room sixty-three, I'll give you some time alone...and again, I am so sorry, commander. I truly wish I had better news."


	15. Swimming the riptide

Shepard stared at the door, a part of her wanting to run away. Run away from this city, flee the planet, set the Normandy to some unknown destination and escape all this. The simple plastic name plate on the door read ' ' followed by the emblem of the turian Hierarchy, and a sequence of three colored cards, one yellow and marked with the sobering warning _'suicide watch'_.

The door swung inwards on hidden hinges, rather than sliding aside, and Shepard stepped into the bright silence of the room. A large window looked out on a courtyard, the evening sun slanting through the glass to bathe the room in golden light. Garrus was curled on his side on the room's only bed, the haze of sun slanting across his body. For a moment, Shepard half expected him to sit up, to give her that almost-smile she had begun to treasure, but even as she stepped closer, gently calling his name, there was no response. He had been dressed in a soft, creme colored sleeveless tunic and pants, but they did little to hide the fact that he was still painfully thin, spinal ridges pressing sharply against the material.

Kneeling next to the bed, Shepard couldn't help that her gaze went to the new, partially healed, curving scar along his throat, and the light splints on his limp fingers. In the back of her mind all she could think of was the blood on the floor of her quarters, the spattered marks on the door where he had battered and clawed at the metal. It was his eyes that made hot tears flood Shepard's vision, his gaze was utterly empty, fixed on something only he could see.

"Garrus?" Shepard pressed her palm to his slack, unscarred mandible, "Garrus, please..." Only the slight warmth of his plates under her palm, and the soft huff of breath against her wrist, gave any indication that he was even alive.

Garrus' wrists were wrapped in soft, padded restraints, clipped to a strut that followed the mattress the length of the bed. Remembering Lanastia's mention of his aggression, Shepard supposed it was a fair precaution; but even so, her hands were almost frantic as she unbuckled them, flinging them across the room in a desperate kind of grief. Garrus offered absolutely no reaction to this, muscles slack under Shepard's fingers, no so much as a hint or flicker of recognition in his flat, dead eyes.

"Come on, Garrus," Shepard rose from the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed, cupping Garrus' cheek with one hand, rubbing her thumb over the familiar colonial markings; wishing desperately for the familiar pressure of him pressing into her touch. "I'm fine now,just a few new scars... so please, come back to me..." A lump burned heavy in the back of Shepard's throat, and she had to pause, gulping in gasps of air until it subsided, only just managing to get herself under control when the door clicked softly open.

"Commander?" Matriarch Lanastia stepped into view, "are you alright?"

"No." Shepard surprised herself with her honesty, "No, I'm really not. You said I could help...but I don't know how I can possibly do anything useful here."

"I don't know how much Dr.T'Soni told you about the treatments here," Lanastia settled herself on the opposite side of the bed, smoothing the wrinkles in the bedding with a delicate, age spotted hand. "I assume you know that asari can...access the minds of other people, it is often associated with sex, but in truth can be used for anything related to the mind."

Remembering the scrambled beacon visions, and the subsequent bonding with both Liara, and the former thorian-slave, Shiala, Shepard nodded in agreement.

"In the case of mental trauma," the matriarch continued, "a well trained asari is capable of targeting specific sections of the psyche, memories, reactions...and either bring latent memories forward, or subdue ones that cause harm."

"That sounds uncomfortably like brainwashing," Shepard didn't even try to censor the steel from her tone.

"Not at all, although I can understand why you would make the connection," Lanastia replied. "To use the ocean metaphor again, brainwashing would be if the water was simply removed; what I do is...calm the waves a bit, teach my patients to swim, so that when the tides rise, they can move with it, rather than fighting."

Shepard shook her head, "I'm not sure I understand what you would be doing with Garrus."

"To put it simply, I would be able to move through his memories and subdue the immediate fear/pain reactions, and teach him how to cope with the trauma he has experienced. I cannot take those memories away... Much like medigel will aid the healing of a wound, but always leaves a scar, I can help Garrus' mind heal, but I cannot change what he has experienced."

"Then I'm not sure what I can do?" Shepard carefully interlaced her fingers with Garrus' unresponsive digits, "can't you just...fix this."

Lanastia shook her head, a self deprecating smile playing on her lips, "I'm good Shepard, but not that good. This process is a slow one, and will most likely take weeks, probably months; the problem now is making the necessary connection. And that," the slight asari gestured at Shepard, "is where you come in. If you are willing I would like to bond the two of you together, in the hopes that your mental presence will pull him back to a point that I can begin working with him."

"You want me...to go in his head?" Shepard looked dubiously at the matriarch, thinking the entire situation was starting to sound like some sort of bad, straight to download vid.

"In a way yes, I have some hope that Garrus will respond to you, that is," Lanastia gave Shepard a look that bordered on pleading, "if you are willing."

Shepard looked down at Garrus' face, at the slack mandibles and empty eyes, the cruelly clipped fringe and the extensive scarring on his jaw. "Yeah, if there is any chance at all, then I'm willing."

"Thank you, commander," the genuine gratitude in Lanestia's voice was surprisingly obvious, as she reached over to rest a hand against Garrus' forehead, "if you are ready, I would like to do this now, " she offered her free hand to Shepard.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm her roiling doubt and nervousness, Shepard reached out to clasp the matriarch's hand, her pale, scarred skin contrasting sharply with the asari's natural blue hue. She could feel her pulse hammering in her temples, her palm sweat slick where she still grasped Garrus' limp hand. Shepard was about to open her mouth to question the matriarch, when Lanastia looked up at her with slick, black eyes, and the world fell away.

The room spun away and Shepard was assaulted by a confusing montage of images and thoughts, a sharp reminder of the mental cacophony she had experienced with the prothean beacon. Somewhere, she was aware of another mind brushing her own consciousness, and the distant, unfamiliar echo of another body that wasn't her own; reaching tentatively out toward that other sense of self, she felt herself dragged sharply under. The body wasn't hers, its configuration unfamiliar as she stared hazily up at an unfamiliar ceiling through blurred eyes. Everything hurt, and even as a passenger Shepard cringed. There was fresh blood in her mouth, blood and something acrid and viscous, she tried to spit, but it triggered a sharp surge of agony through her face, and someone nearby laughed. There was a sick kind of internal hurt that Shepard didn't want to think about, and the cold slick of blood on her thighs.

"Garrus?" Shepard tried to call mentally, reaching for the spark that was him, "Garrus, please don't do this!" Shepard could hear a grating Krogan laugh, and through her borrowed eyes she recognized Garm, heavy paw lifting a glowing length of metal from a barrel fire. Cursing her own cowardice, Shepard pulled away, trying to ignore the echoing cry of mental anguish, the wave of pain, shame, guilt and fear that flooded through her. "Oh god Garrus, its Shepard, please...you need to stop this!"

Re-lived memories flashed through Shepard in a sickening montage. She could feel the dull agony as Kurril forced her to her knees, talons hooking into her shattered jaw to drag her mouth closer. The nerve stripping agony of a hand blade against the sensitive cartilage of her fringe, the fear of trying to breath in an ice cold, airless darkness. The feeling of Garm's hand forcing her hand around the pistol grip, watching Butler and Sidonis die, again, and again, and again. Dimly Shepard was aware of her own body, of the growing ache in her temples, overlayed as it was by the horror of the shared memories. With a kind of desperation, Shepard latched onto what she could barely recognize as Garrus, and pulled with all her mental strength, dimly aware of the sharp stab of pain in her head, and the wetness of blood in her nostrils. For a moment there was only an odd kind of echoing silence, and then Shepard found herself in a familiar purgatory cell.

Garrus sat against the far wall, knees hugged to his chest, staring fixedly at a wash of blood on the floor. Struck by how strangely real the room felt, Shepard let her shocked mind wander the cell, taking in the ravaged bodies sprawled in the shadows. Some she recognized, Butler, Sidonis, the asari who had been flung to the crowd; others, like the batarian, his chest a shattered ruin, and the salarian, who stared up at her with one remaining eye, were strangers. In the middle of the carnage Shepard found herself, stripped to the waist, blood smeared and pale, the wounds in her chest gaping open like hungry mouths, exposing red meat and white bone.

"No! No, Garrus, I'm here!" kneeling next to him, Shepard gave him a strong shake, "I'm here!"

Shepard could feel a slight flicker of confusion against her mind, a tiny response, and she flung all the memories of her recovery towards it, from waking in the med bay, to examining her new scars, even the trip to the clinic with Liara. A surge of recognition and gratitude pressed against her mind, and the cell slowly started to fade. The stained, filth streaked walls fell away, leaving only a cold blackness in which Shepard floundered, weightless and suffocating, until with a flash it was gone.

Coming back into her own body was not unlike hitting a safety rope after a long fall, a sudden, almost sickening lurch. Blinking dry eyes, Shepard stared in confusion at the ceiling, it took a few moments for her to realize she must have slipped from her place on the bed, and that the tiled floor was very hard and cold against her back. Levering herself slowly to her knees, Shepard groaned at the sharp pain in her head, raising a slightly shaky arm to blot away the blood on her upper lip with her sleeve. Matriarch Lanastia was leaning back against the head of the bed, face drawn and pale, her spattering of freckles showing clearly against the pallor of her skin.

"Garrus?" Shepard pressed her hand to his face again, looking for any kind of reaction in his lost gaze. Her stomach was beginning to clench almost painfully, when she felt the slight twitch of his mandible against her palm, and he blinked slowly, struggling to focus on her face; his sky-blue gaze marred with a kind of hunted pain. He coughed slightly, and his voice was a harsh whisper when he spoke.

"Sh...Shepard?"


	16. Echoes and Dreams

The first thing Shepard noticed was that she wasn't on the floor anymore, the second was that her head felt a bit like someone had been using it for concussive-round practice. She slitted one eye open, letting out an involuntary groan as a spear of light penetrated through her cornea with the disturbing accuracy usually reserved for ryncol induced hangovers.

"A moment Shepard, I will dim the lights," Liara's voice made Shepard jump a little, but she tentatively opened one eyelid, blinking owlishly in the half-light.

"Urgh" Shepard managed eloquently, grimacing at the foul taste in the back of her throat. It tasted like a husk had decomposed on her tongue. "Wha' happen'd?" Managing to focus her protesting eyes she realized she was stretched out on the bed in Garrus' room, in fact his face was tucked into her neck, brow-plates pressed uncomfortably against her chin. Shepard's hand was still cupped against Garrus' jaw, and she extricated it slowly, knowing her face was burning, and trying to ignore the slightly smug, knowing smile on Liara's face.

"Apparently," Liara made her way over to Shepard, balancing a plate and mug in her hands, "you experienced some manner of...sharing, with Garrus, then you both passed out rather spectacularly." Liara managed to look both amused and worried, "here," she held out the mug for Shepard, "Matriarch Lanastia said you should drink this."

Shepard went to sit up, her motion disturbing Garrus, who shot upright so fast his forehead cracked Shepard on the chin, setting of a fireworks burst of pain in her head. Garrus made an odd surprised noise, like a cross between a hiss and a yelp, hand raising to his forehead plates at the same time as Shepard clasped a hand over her chin. "Ow!" they mumbled in unison.

An unladylike snort of amusement burst from Shepard, as she rubbed her abused chin, smiling when Garrus gave her an amused mandible twitch, mouth gaping slightly in the almost-smile she had come to treasure. The moment was a fleeting one however, as Garrus fully woke up, the haunted look came back into his eyes. The haze of sleep replaced by that horribly inward, hurt gaze that Shepard loathed.

"Were you...in my head?" Garrus asked softly, eyes fixed firmly on the bedding he was now twisting nervously in his hands.

Accepting the proffered mug from Liara, Shepard shot the asari a slightly pleading gaze, relaxing as Liara took the hint and padded for the door. "I'll go see if they have anything for you both in the kitchens," she added tactfully, closing the door gently behind her as she exited.

The thick,cool liquid in the mug gave Shepard an excuse to not answer Garrus for a moment. The juice was an odd mix of citrus, and a wonderfully cooling peppery aftertaste that rejuvenated the parched tissues in her mouth.

"It was necessary," she said finally, "I needed to wake you up..."Shepard could see Garrus' gaze flicker, his face pensive as he tried to recall the memories they had shared. After a moment, realization sparked in his eyes, and his mandibles flattened to his jaw as he physically cringed, turning his face abruptly away from her, shame stamped on his features.

"No," Shepard gulped the rest of her juice, turning to plonk the mug down on the floor. "No, don't you dare be ashamed of this, don't you fucking dare!" Reaching forward she cupped her hands under his chin, lifting his head, so he was looking her in the eyes. "Look at me, this is not your fault!" Giving Garrus an emphatic shake, Shepard continued, "you survived where most people would have given up, you fought, and there is no shame in that! So you keep fighting, and one day, you and I are going to take a trip to Omega and get some serious payback!"

Garrus blinked at her,eyes wide in shock, and Shepard could feel the surprised flicker of mandibles against her palms, then he leaned forward to lightly press his forehead against hers, an odd gesture that Shepard wasn't entirely sure how to react to. After a few seconds Garrus pulled back, an unreadable expression on his face; and Shepard got an uncomfortable feeling that she had somehow missed something important.

She was saved from awkwardness by a light tap on the door, and the reappearance of Liara, bearing a cluttered tray.

"Wow Liara, did you clean the place out?" Shepard had to laugh as Liara started handing out bowls, cups and plates from her overladen tray.

"Well, I had no idea what either of you would like," Liara said a bit severely, "Garrus, you are supposed to have this, if you like it or not."

Garrus accepted the glass Liara handed him with a dubious look at the somewhat viscous, greenish contents. "What is it?" he sniffed at it, splaying his mandibles in disgust, "it smells terrible."

"Some kind of concentrated electrolyte and vitamin supplement concoction, and no," Liara hefted a bowl tauntingly in one hand, "you can't have this until you drink it."

Shepard sputtered out a laugh, almost choking on a mouthful of the sandwich she had been handed, as Garrus stared at the glass with a look of slightly sullen petulance. "Fine," he grated, gulping down the thick liquid, handing the glass back to Liara with a pinched expression, mandibles flattened to his jaw.

"Disgusting?" Liara couldn't keep the slight smile as Garrus nodded, his low rumble of discontent turning to a happy hum as he retrieved his bowl from Liara. Shepard caught a glimpse of something pale as as Garrus started carefully scooping up food with splinted fingers and biting down on it with a sharp snap.

"Ok, what is that?" Shepard wasn't entirely certain she wanted to know, as she watched Garrus tilt his head back, throat working as he swallowed whatever he had bitten off. Picking up something translucent between thumb and forefinger, Garrus offered it carefully to Shepard; for a second, Shepard assumed it was some kind of fruit, until it uncurled its legs, twitching slightly in the turian's grip. "Oh fuck me!" lurching away from the weakly struggling creature, Shepard felt her face burning as Liara dissolved into laughter.

"Commander Shepard, hero of the citadel... terrified of cyrel!" Liara giggled, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"Really, Shepard?" The humour in Garrus' flanged tone was so reminiscent of an earlier, happier time, that it brought an unexpected flood of tears to Shepard's eyes. She could see the unwanted sympathy on Liara's face she ducked her head, blinking rapidly as she gulped a mouthful of sandwich to cover up her emotional reaction.

"I can't help it," Shepard mumbled thickly around a mouthful of bread, cringing as Garrus killed the wiggling shrimp-like creature with his thumb talon and neatly swallowed it whole. "It looks like some kind of...irradiated mini-sovereign!"

"Well then, at least I'm contributing something to your fight against the reapers." The bitterness and self recrimination in Garrus' voice was sobering, and a kind of awkward silence settled over the room.

"Shepard doesn't have any right to complain," Liara chipped in, with a desperate kind of forced cheerfulness, "you should see some of the things humans eat!" Tapping at her omnitool, she leaned over to show Garrus the display. "That's a squid, they eat those... Oh, don't you even dare!" Liara added severely, as Garrus flicked a mandible, gaze sliding from the squid to the graceful curves of the asari's scalp.

By the time Matriarch Lanastia tapped on the door, the room had fallen into a passive silence. Shepard wasn't entirely sure what to say to Garrus anymore.

Back on the SR1, Shepard had often found herself down in the hangar bay, chatting with the enthusiastic young C-Sec officer about anything from their shared interest in weaponry and military tactics, to favourite music and vids. Their tastes clashed hugely, but they never tired of hashing through each others choices over some manner of terrible drink, the harsh burn of cheap alcohol counterpoint to their amused rivalry over the faults of human and turian cultures. Somehow Shepard couldn't even imagine those conversations with Garrus now; it wasn't like she could just cheerfully ask if he had seen any good vids lately, while the horrors he had experienced still flickered through her mind in a sickening montage. Shepard had briefly contemplated dragging out schematics for the new weapon mods she had bought on the Citadel, but the sensory memory of the shots Garrus had been forced to take, made her question if that was appropriate, and even if Garrus would ever pick up a gun again. The circuitous questioning ended in her saying nothing, fidgeting awkwardly with her half eaten sandwich, reducing the bread to a pile of unpalatable crumbs.

Shepard couldn't disguise her surprise at the change in Lanastia's face; her eyes seemed sunken, and the slight lines on her face seemed to have deepened. "Looking particularly hag-like am I?" the matriarch chuckled, eyes crinkling at Shepard's flushed denial, "It's quite alright, I'm well aware that my old mind doesn't bounce back from that kind of strain as easily as yours will."

Garrus levered himself shakily to his feet as Lanastia approached, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously, "I...I'm sorry, I..."

"Stop apologizing!" craning her neck to look up at the turian, Lanastia shook her head, "goddess, are there no short turians? Its just as well I'm not handling your physio, I'd need to stand on a stool."

"Physio?" Garrus looked confused, undamaged mandible twitching in agitation.

"Absolutely," Lanastia gave him a genuine smile, "you've been injured, and spent too much time immobile, its going to take some work to get your strength and full range of motion back." Without giving Garrus time to put too much thought into that, the diminutive matriarch continued, "I would actually like to start that tonight,as well as speak to you privately. I'm sure Shepard could use some proper rest..."

That was such a blatant dismissal that Shepard couldn't help but smile, behind her, Liara managed to turn a giggle into a slightly more diplomatic sounding cough. Still healing muscles protested as Shepard hauled herself to her feet and stretched, between the nagging aches and the still fresh memories burning tracks through her brain, she was exhausted. As Shepard arched her back, hands easing the kinks from the muscles along her spine, Liara moved forward to give Garrus a timid hug, standing on her tiptoes to whisper something into his ear, that made him twitch a mandible at her, almost smiling as he nodded.

"I'll be back in a day or two," Shepard almost repeated Liara's gesture, but then opted for a neutral clap to the shoulder instead, resting her hand against the prominent ridge of his cowl for a moment. "You'll be alright," she forced a cheerfulness into her voice, that she didn't entirely feel; trying to ignore the way Garrus stared at her with sad eyes, confused by her brusqueness.

That somber gaze followed her to the door, burning into her back, and flooding her with regret and guilt. Shame that Liara could offer the casual comfort that Shepard was struggling with. The shared memories told her exactly what violations Garrus had faced, and she had no desire to force her own affections on him, even if it meant pulling further away.


	17. Catharsis

Nothing was ever easy. Just once, Shepard wanted to get a dossier that simply required finding that person at the bar, and asking if they would join up. At least the fight up through the half constructed levels of the Dantius towers had focused Shepard's thoughts on something other than Garrus.

Shepard found herself still conflicted on how to approach her turian friend. Although the shared memories now had the distance blurred reality of particularly vivid dreams, they had tainted her perceptions enough to make being around Garrus somewhat uncomfortable. When she had brought it up with Liara, the asari had surprised Shepard by rather crossly telling her to get over it.

"You need to stop treating him like some kind of...broken invalid, Shepard," Liara had looked up, concern and frustration written on her face. "He's still Garrus, and the fact that you either avoid him or treat him like he's made of glass, is hurting him." Pulling up a stream of data on asari justicars for Shepard to download, Liara had added: "I can understand how difficult you find it to deal with his memories Shepard, but they happened to Garrus, not to you, and you need to let it go so he can try to move past this."

The conversation had continued from there, tongues liberated with an almost continuous flow of good thessian wine, and Shepard had left feeling somewhat chastised; wondering what had happened to the meek, timid doctor she remembered from the original Normandy. But she had taken the advise to heart as best she could, and that had led her here, to a small, privately owned armor store that Liara had said was the best kept secret in Nos Astra.

When she had first stepped into the dimly lit shop, several days previously, Shepard had been unimpressed by the clutter and grime; but the young salarian proprietor had obviously learned his craft well, and she had placed her order; agreeing to return in three days for pick-up. As soon as she stepped through the entrance the salarian pattered out to the counter, wide mouth fixed in that enthusiastic, slightly creepy grin his race seemed to have patented.

"Commander Shepard! Your order is right here, I was just finishing up the biofeedback monitoring system we had discussed." The technician detached a few wires, clicking the object down on the counter, as he rambled on about biotic field measurement, in-built translation software and backtracing. Shepard was oblivious as she turned the modified visor frame over in her hands.

One of the first things Shepard had noticed about Garrus when they had first met was his complete attachment to his blue-tinted snipers visor. After a great deal of coaxing, he had eventually turned it over for Shepard to examine; hovering over her like an anxious new turian mother watching someone else hold their hatchling for the first time. After watching Shepard flick curiously through the HUD menu, Garrus had admitted that he had designed the visor himself, and the construction had cost him the better part of six months wages. Shepard could remember him wearing it when they fought their way through the Citadel, Sovereign dominating the skyline above them. Then later as he waved farewell from the partially repaired Citadel docks, the blue lit display brightening the navy lines of colonial markings on his cheek. Equally bright in her mind was the sharp, painful memory of the kick that first warped the frame, then descended again to shatter both the HUD screen, and the plating beneath it.

Running her hands over the struts that joined the visor screen to the dermal clamp, Shepard could feel the results of the final specifics of the commission against the skin of her questing fingertips. Of all the specifics she had ordered, Shepard had questioned her decision on this the most; Liara had provided the needed information, and left the decision to include it up to Shepard. As her fingers traced the names of Garrus' Omega crew, laser etched into the metal of the visor frame, Shepard couldn't help but think it was appropriate.

Garrus' room was empty and silent, and Shepard's stomach automatically dropped, all manner of reasons why, each more horrific than the last, spun through her mind.

"He's in the training hall, over on the east wing." Ignoring Shepard's somewhat undignified yelp of surprise, Lanestia smiled blandly, looking pointedly at the folded visor clasped in Shepard's hand. "What have you brought?"

Heart still racing from the Matriarch's sudden appearance, Shepard handed the visor over with some trepidation, expecting some kind of reprimand for bringing military hardware into a medical clinic. Turning the visor over in her hands, Lanestia's face creased into a warm smile, and she glanced up at Shepard, her eyes bright with approval, "an excellent choice Commander, Garrus will be glad of it...and well pleased to see you again, I imagine."

The subtle reprimand reminded Shepard that it had been nearly a week since she had been here, and she shuffled awkwardly, guilt worming its way across her face. "How is he then?"

Lanastia jerked her head for Shepard to follow her, "as well as can be expected, and better than I had hoped. When he isn't being stubborn and/or neurotic, he responds to treatment well... but you have to understand there is no magic 'cure' to this Commander, this will effect him for life. I'm just giving him the tools to cope with it."

Shepard nodded soberly, disappointed, but unsurprised by the doctor's blunt appraisal.

"I do have to ask you one thing Shepard," the ancient asari pinned Shepard with a gimlet stare. " I need to know what you intend for Garrus once he leaves this facility, because he is under the impression he will be returning to your crew."

"Garrus will always have a place on the Normandy if he wishes." Shepard watched as Lanastia relaxed slightly.

"I'm glad," the matriarch gave Shepard a clap on the back that was unexpectedly firm, "I was worried that you would not choose to have him serving on your ship again, and honestly I was concerned about the results of that decision." At Shepard's questioning glance, she continued: "turians with nothing to do will almost always go looking for trouble, trust me I know, I've been bonded to two of them." Lanastia wiggled two fingers at Shepard, a mischievous smile on her lips, giving a hint of the charming beauty she must have been as a maiden. "I certainly have no wish to influence your decisions, I am sure your work is both important and urgent; but I get the impression that without some cause to ground him, Garrus will go looking for the people responsible for the deaths of his friends, and on his own that would end in disaster."

Shepard supposed this was when she should be a good commander, make the decision that every Alliance general she had ever known would have made; there was no place on a warship for a soldier with questionable stability, but then Shepard had never been one for rules. "Consider me un-influenced, you have no idea how much I need Garrus at my back for this mission, there is no question that I want him back on the Normandy." As the words left her mouth, Shepard realized she had never been as sure of anything in her life, and the strength of that conviction surprised her.

Lanastia rewarded her with a bright smile, and was opening her mouth to speak when her omni-tool chirped at her, and she pulled up the holographic display with a sigh. "Never a dull moment," she muttered. " I apologize commander, but I really must go. If you follow this hallway," the matriarch pointed ahead, down the long corridor, "turn left at the end, the training rooms are pretty hard to miss from there."

The training rooms were massive, arranged in a rough hexagon around a central, open roofed courtyard. A glance through the first door revealed an expansive pool, where two asari seemed to be receiving some manner of instruction from a hanar; even from the door Shepard could see what looked like extensive burn scarring marring the otherwise smooth skin of one of the asari's backs. The second room seemed to be a mix of weight equipment and open floor space. A dark-plated turian with a brace from ankle to hip on one leg, looked up curiously when Shepard poked her head in to look around. Her curious gaze skimmed over him, fixing on the turian working side by side with a grizzled, older human on the other side of the room.

The first thing Shepard noticed was that Garrus had actually managed to put on a bit of weight in the last week, not a lot, but enough to make him look a little less skeletal. The human man he was working with wouldn't have looked out of place on an Alliance recruitment poster, all neatly cropped silver hair, trimmed beard, and muscles turned stringy rather than bulky. The movements him and Garrus were working through looked slightly like a dance, but Shepard instantly recognized the slow, controlled movements as a kata; a set of blows, counter-blows and dodges, strung together into a fluid, choreographed pattern. Leaning her hip against the door-frame, Shepard watched as the instructor stopped Garrus mid-move to adjust the angle of one arm.

"You have to get your shoulder up," the human's bass grumble resonated, as he carefully manipulated Garrus' right arm upwards, putting pressure on the still livid surgical scars, "And yes, I know it hurts, but unless you get the tendons and muscles in that joint conditioned, the first time you use anything heavier than a SMG the kickback is going to shatter that joint like an egg."

It was a testament to how far Garrus had progressed that he didn't immediately lunge away from the other man's touch, as Shepard had expected him to. She could clearly see the tension in him, and the sudden shiver of skin and plates as he flinched, it was clear the human saw it as well, but made no comment, simply maintained a light grip on the turian's arm until he relaxed, then continued as if nothing had happened. Shepard watched quietly as the man arranged Garrus' arm to his liking, getting him to hold the position until the muscles in his shoulder were trembling with the strain, only letting him relax the limb when it was clear he simply wasn't going to be able to hold it up much longer.

"Alright, that's enough for today, looks like you have company anyway," with a jerk of his grizzled chin, the man pointed Garrus in Shepard's direction. Shepard half expected the instructor to come over and introduce himself, but with a bawl of "Quinrus, you are here to work, not eavesdrop, put some effort into it!" he headed off towards the turian with the injured leg, who was now looking terribly embarrassed.

"Shepard!" Garrus padded over, the talons on his bare feet clicking against the floor, "I wasn't sure you were coming back."

The shy pleasure in his voice made Shepard feel a fresh wave of guilt, and she covered it by stepping forward and wrapping her alms around Garrus' slim midriff. Garrus gave a slightly surprised huff, and Shepard could feel his hands resting tentatively on her shoulders, as he tilted his head so his cheek was pressed against the top of her head.

"Oh, hey," Shepard moved back, reaching up to rest her hand against the angle of his jaw, trying to ignore the almost desperate way he automatically pressed into her touch. "I brought something for you!"

Garrus' eyes went wide as Shepard pressed the visor into his hand, mandibles flaring with shock as he unfolded the support struts and targeting screen, "Shepard, I don't know what to say, this must have cost a fortune..." Garrus was so enamored with the new tech he clipped his shoulder on the door-frame, and to Shepard's amusement, didn't even seem to notice, simply re correcting and padding into the hallway without looking up. After a few steps, however, he came to a dead stop, utterly frozen as he stared down at the names engraved along the visor frame.

Without looking at Shepard, Garrus sank down onto one of the wood benches lining the hallway, shaking fingers tracing over the names with an almost frantic repetition. "Their names," his voice was ragged, the harmonics of his dual-toned voice shaky, "how did you know?"

"Liara," Shepard offered the name as explanation, "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have..."

"No, " Garrus fumbled the dermal clamp into place on the back of his neck, the targeting screen settling over his left eye, "no, this , this is perfect...thank you." The last few words were heavy with a low vibration in the back of his throat, and to Shepard's horror Garrus hunched forward, his voice shattering into a kind of keening sob.

"Oh Garrus, I'm so sorry, I never thought..." Shepard winced as Garrus shook his head vehemently, his response such a slurred, multi-tonal mess that Shepard's translator couldn't make any sense of it. Not sure what to do, Shepard wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hushing him softly as he turned to press his face into the crook of her neck. It was then that Shepard realized that this grief had none of the self-destructive, hysterical desperation she had seen from Garrus before; this was simple honest grief, a catharsis of sorts.

Shepard could remember this kind of grief from Virmire, when all the guilt and self-recrimination fell away, and there was only the hollow, numb sense of loss. It was Garrus she had gone too then, half drunk, and lost in her own sorrow. She had cried for what seemed like hours and woken up in the mako, sore eyed and exhausted, but somehow lighter.

As Garrus keened his grief into her shoulder, Shepard hoped that this might bring some similar comfort, some measure of freedom from the guilt that had plagued him. Smoothing a hand over the smooth cartilage of his fringe, Shepard held him tightly as he cried; grieving for those cut down on the lawless streets of Omega, and perhaps for his own lost youth and innocence as well.


	18. Omega's Revenant

"Garm is dead." The simple admission shocked Shepard into silence, and she froze, staring at the newly instated Shadow Broker, surprise warring with sadistic glee on her face.

"Good!" Shepard spat, "I hope it fucking hurt."

"That is what I asked you here to discuss actually." Liara skimmed her fingers over the terminal, reports and surveillance clips flickering across the display, "and yes Shepard, I am very sure it hurt."

The final picture that settled on the screen actually made Shepard take a step back, mouth dropping open. "Holy shit..." If Liara hadn't forewarned Shepard that the dead Krogan she was looking at was Garm, she wouldn't have been able to guess. The massive krogan's face was so bloated with blood it had distorted his features into a rictus grin, the dull flash of metal under the swollen, gore slicked chin was the only hint of the thin cable that had been used to hang the former Bloodpack leader. Shepard allowed a slight smirk to twitch her lips, a hanging death for a species with such advanced regeneration as the krogan, was a brutal, slow way to die. Blood vessels, fragile tracheal tissues and nerves would have struggled to repair, even as Garm's body weight tore them apart.

With another tap at the terminal, Liara scrolled out, so the entire bloody wreck of krogan could be seen, and Shepard made no attempt to stifle the bark of sick laughter that bubbled in her throat at the sight. Garm had been stripped, his signature Blood-pack armor scattered in a circle around him, his legs were streaked with blood, all leading from the ruin of his groin; where there should have been a heavy double ballsack and thick cock, was now a gaping bloody mess. There was no surgical precision and the cuts that had castrated him were so savage the glint of pubic bone was visible.

"Well, this just makes my day!" Shepard gave Liara a cheerful thumbs up, "if I had known you were planning anything this entertaining, I would have brought beer."

"Honestly Shepard, you don't find this rather...convenient?"

"You think this is about Garrus?" Shepard shook her head, "I doubt it, Garrus couldn't have been the only person Garm..." biting that thought short, she muttered, "I mean, he must have made a lot of enemies over the years. Isn't it just as likely that this is retribution for any number of crimes? Or perhaps even a new gang looking to make an impression on the locals?"

"I had thought that too, until this," Liara pulled a closeup of the dead krogan's abdomen up on screen, and what had looked like random damage coalesced into a distinct pattern burned into the thick hide.

"What am I looking at?" Shepard tilted her head, trying to make sense of the symbol, "looks like some kind of bird, gang sigil maybe?"

"I wasn't sure at first," with a nod at the main screen, Liara added, "then I ran a recognition program through the Broker's archives, and it turned up this."

The video feed was slightly grainy, the archive tag at the bottom of the feed identified the location as Omega, roughly eight months ago. Shepard watched as a batarian and a turian dashed past the camera, the turian turned to say something over his shoulder, and Shepard recognized Lantar Sidonis, one of the victims of Garm's cruelty. Garrus loped into the screen with a salarian by his side, and as he turned to look behind him, raising his rifle, Liara froze the screen. Marking a small part of the image, Liara enhanced the screen until the emblem on the upper arm of Garrus' armor was clearly visible.

"Fuck me," Shepard breathed, looking between the emblem, and the etched burn on Garm's stomach. "Who is doing this?"

"That I don't know, the Shadow Broker...I mean, I, have limited agents on Omega," Liara looked almost smug, clearly enjoying the sudden power she wielded. "I can assign more to that area and I will put out feelers, I should have more for you in a few days."

"What do I tell Garrus?" the thrill of Garm's brutal demise eased at the thought.

"I would tell him the truth Shepard, and perhaps ask if he thinks it possible any of his squad did in fact survive."

"That's going to be a fun conversation," Shepard muttered, "and you honestly think that's possible, that one of his squad survived?"

Liara shrugged, "I can't think of anyone else who would have taken this...specific kind of action, unless you did it?" The asari's grin was sly and teasing, with just enough of a question in it to make Shepard shake her head.

"If I had done this, I would have thrown a station wide party," Shepard replied with a laugh. "So no, sorry, I can't take credit.

It was hours before Shepard returned to the Normandy, her eyes burning from staring at endless security feeds, searching for some clue as to who this new vigilante might be. Eventually she had to admit defeat, Liara had promised to ferret out any new information she could, and would be speaking to sources on Omega the following day; in the end, that had to be enough.

The ship was silent as Shepard padded through the airlock, the peaceful atmosphere counterpoint to the savage storms raging outside the hull. Joker was asleep in his chair, cap tipped over his face, legs stretched out in front of him. Most of the crew appeared to be off duty for the simulated night cycle, only Kelly Chambers was still at her CIC position, looking up brightly as Shepard entered.

"Commander, I was hoping to catch you," the yeoman dimpled prettily at Shepard, looking almost abnormally chipper given the late hour. "Someone has been calling your private terminal from a public access on Omega for the last few hours, they don't seem to want to leave a message. Do you want me to put it through to your quarters?"

"From Omega?" Shepard frowned, who would be calling from there? "Yes, thanks Kelly, put it through if they call again." Distractedly she palmed the controls for the elevator, as the doors were closing she added, "and go get some sleep, Chambers!"

Once in her quarters, it didn't take long for her comm terminal to chirp an incoming alarm, and Shepard sank down in front of it, slapping her palm on the touch activated screen. The face that filled the screen was haggard, tear streaked and exhausted, eyes burned holes in a face that had seen and experienced too much.

"Nalah, Nalah Butler?"

"Commander Shepard!" There is a desperate, gasping quality to her voice, fresh tears slick the tracks along her cheeks, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I didn't know who else to call!" She hunched forward then, curling her arms around the expansive swell of her belly, and Shepard realized she must be close to full term.

"Its fine, " Shepard's voice was heavy with confusion, "what do you need?"

"He's going to kill me, " Nalah whimpered, shaking hands pressed against her mouth, eyes wild. "He killed Garm, and he took Jaroth tonight...and he's going to find me... please, please, I don't want to die! I'm so sorry, I didn't know what would happen...I'm so sorry."

Nalah's voice fractured into hysterical sobbing, and Shepard had to raise her voice to make herself heard. "Whats going on Nalah, who's trying to kill you?"

"H..he came for the others, and I know he's going to find me!" Nalah twists to look over her shoulder, her skin reflecting greyish in the unflattering light, she looks like she hasn't slept in days.

"Who is coming for you Nalah?!"

"He is, " Nalah Butler turned wide, dark eyes to the camera. Her lips are dry and cracked, beading with blood as she whispers: "Archangel."

"What?" Shepard frowned, "that's... not possible, there must be some mistake..."

"No, no mistake commander," Nalah's voice was ragged with fear and exhaustion, "please, please commander, you...you have to talk to him, make him stop...my baby." Her arms are still curled around her midriff, as if those shaking limbs could offer any protection to her unborn child.

"Talk to who?" Shepard asked, "wait, you think Garrus is doing this?" At Nalah's hesitant nod, Shepard shakes her head, "he isn't, I can guarantee that. I don't know who is doing this, but it's not Garrus." Watching as shock and disbelief settle across Nalah's sallow face, the rest of the conversation cycles through Shepard's brain, and her voice goes soft and dangerous. "Wait...why would you be afraid of Garrus? What have you done, Nalah, what have you done?"

For a moment, Shepard thinks Nalah is going to disconnect, the last of the color drains from her face as her eyes rove away from the screen; when her gaze eventually returns to the display its like all the life has gone out of her face, and her voice is hollow and frail. "I didn't know what would happen, they told me they wouldn't...oh god, you have to believe me, I didn't know." When Shepard makes no response, she continues "I don't know how they found me, but I came home from the market and Tarak was in our house...he, he said that he would kill me and my husband if I didn't cooperate. He promised that if I gave him the information he wanted...that he would let us live, and the rest of the the squad as well. H..he said...he said they just wanted Archangel."

"And you believed that?" Shepard couldn't keep the disgust out of her voice, "and what was this information you gave to them?"

"The door codes," Nalah whispered so softly Shepard could hardly hear, "Garrus had given me access weeks before in case I needed a safe-house...I gave them the door codes." A fresh wash of tears flooded down her sunken cheeks, "but they promised...they said they would let my husband go. I hated myself for having to give them Garrus, but I just wanted my husband home...and they promised."

"And look how well that turned out," the fury in Shepard's tone makes Nalah flinch like she'd been struck. Shepard could hardly look at the screen anymore, all she can see is Garrus as she had found him on Purgatory; how in his mind all she had felt was pain, guilt and the terrible shame of degradation, all because of this woman. "Do you even know what they did to him, what he went through, because you couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut?" Shepard is dimly aware she is yelling, but the rage coiling in her gut is making her reconstruction scars burn, lathing her mind in a white hot anger.

Nalah nodded jerkily, raising a shaking hand to scrub tears from red-rimmed eyes, "I was there when they...when my husband died. T..Tarak told me to be there, that he was to be released... but they made me watch...they made me watch, and they laughed. Even after my husband was dead, they made me stay, so I would see... see what I had done. Th..they thought it was...funny...that's all they did: laugh."

Some small part of Shepard's mind feels pity for Nalah, but its eclipsed by the rising fury and disgust. "And after that, even though you knew he was alive, you let Garrus keep thinking that this was his fault? That somehow he had made a mistake that has cost his team their lives?" Nalah simply kept her eyes downcast, tears running down her cheeks to drip from the tip of her nose, as Shepard watches, she wretches, turning away from the screen to spit up raw bile.

Shepard knows she should have compassion, knows that Nalah was a stranger then to the cruelty and deception of Omega's crime lords; but somehow, when she thinks about the repercussions of the woman's naivete and cowardice, she can't find it within herself to care. "I will find out what is happening on Omega, but I won't do it for you, and I honestly couldn't care less what happens to you." Shepard's voice is cold as she adds, "now if you will excuse me, I have to figure out how to tell a friend that his life was ruined because you couldn't keep your mouth shut." Nalah looks stricken, her mouth just opening when Shepard slaps her hand down on the disconnect and the screen fades to a sombre darkness.


	19. Storm warning

**Just wanted to say 'Thank You!' to everyone leaving comments, following & faving AtKH,AtKM. Its great to know people are reading! **

Shepard stands in the driving rain, and thinks she is the worst kind of coward. The call from Nalah Butler had shaken her more than she wanted to admit, and she had buried that discomfort in the savage heat of Haestrom's unstable sun, Dholen.

When the Normandy passed the first comm buoy , a substantial data packet from Liara had confirmed the brutal death of Jaroth, who's brutalized body had been found hung from the balcony of the deserted apartment building where Garrus and his team had made their final stand. Included with that information was a set of still pictures, mercifully cropped from video footage, of Nalah at the execution of her husband. Shepard had stared at the final still for several minutes, gazing at those dead, empty eyes, at the way an armored hand was holding her face upright by her hair, the shine of fresh sick on the front of her tunic, and the way her hands had been curled around her then-flat belly. Afterwards, with a newly recruited Tali in tow, she had walked into the first bar she saw on Illium, and gotten as drunk as possible.

Telling Tali about Garrus had been something like throwing stones at a kitten. Shepard had gulped back the harsh on-tap beer and watched the quarian flinch with each new carefully worded scrap of information; not saying anything when Tali changed her order to harder liquors. Eventually she had left her sitting silently at the bar and wandered the streets and markets of Nos Astra, hazy with drink and wracked with indecision.

Garrus had once told Shepard that the hardest part of working for C-Sec had been the post-crime rookie assignments of informing a family about the loss of a loved one. At the time Shepard had been skeptical , now, standing in the downpour staring at the Lanastia clinic, she had come to realize that Garrus had been completely in the right. Shepard had honestly considered leaving Garrus completely in the dark about the new developments on Omega, but Liara's condemnation of that idea, and her own guilt at the thought of deceiving her friend had destroyed that concept.

The driving rain was warm, with a slight tang of ocean salt. It plasters Shepard's clothes to her skin and slicks her hair flat to her skull, but does nothing to clear the haze of alcohol and dread from her mind. Lanastia had added Shepard to a rare all-hours pass list, and the door slides aside to admit her without hesitation. As the clinic door hisses shut behind her, Shepard stands, dripping, in the door way, trying to ignore the furious glance the night-duty receptionist gives her. Managing to wring the worst of the storm from her clothing , Shepard ducks her head so she doesn't have to see the pointed glare the young asari gives the clock on the wall. The lights in the hallways have been dimmed, the only sound is the squelch of Shepard's sodden shoes.

The door to Garrus' room swings back soundlessly when Shepard presses her fingers to the access panel. The only light is from outside, the shimmer of traffic lights and the glow of distant billboards reflecting in a soft haze through rain spattered glass. Garrus is sprawled out asleep with one arm curled up against his chest, the other outstretched, palm up, talons slack and relaxed. Its the first time Shepard had seen his face without its shroud of bandages, and although its evident that the terrible injuries have healed a great deal, the dull gleam of cybernetic reconstruction of his jaw makes her stomach clench.

It seemed strange for Shepard to see Garrus so unguarded, and she stood for long minutes, watching him sleep while cooling rain dripped down her face like tears. His rest wasn't completely peaceful; occasional tremors flickered through his body, and he would gasp in a few deep, deliberate breaths, talons curling like he was trying to hold onto something. He had just relaxed back into peaceful slumber again when Shepard summoned up the flagging remnants of her courage.

"Garrus" Shepard's voice came out a soft rasp, as if her traitorous body itself shied away from the situation as much as her mind did.

Despite the softness of her call, Garrus was awake in an instant, pale eyes fixing on her, muscles coiling under the darker scars crisscrossing his reconstructed shoulder. "Shepard?! Is everything alright?" The adrenaline induced flanging of his voice eased, replaced by the higher tones of fear and concern, "what has happened? Are you hurt?" He sits up, untangling long legs from the blankets and blinking up at Shepard as she stepped forward to rest a clammy hand on his shoulder, its slight weight entreating him to stay sitting as she sinks down beside him.

Shepard tried not to look over at Garrus as she mechanically recited the details surrounding the deaths of Omega's criminal elite; from the corner of her eyes she could see his hands clenching and relaxing rhythmically against the sheets, partly grown in talons leaving pocked tears in the tough fabric. A single glance through the still sodden strands of her hair showed clear confusion on his expressive alien face; but his eyes sparked with a gleam of predatory satisfaction as Shepard laid out the details.

"Garrus, I need to know, is there any way that one or more of your team survived?"

"No!" Garrus bolted to his feet so fast his bare feet gouged runnels in the flooring. "How...how could you ask me that?" Shepard watched as he paced across the room and back, movements jerky with stress. "You saw, you saw...Melanis, Butler...Sidonis..."

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry." Shepard scrubbed the last of the damp from her face with a forearm, "but what about any of the others, is there any way?"

Garrus' pacing slowed, and he paused at the window, resting his forehead against the glass. "No, " he said softly, voice heavy with regret, "Erash...lived for a while, if we could have gotten him help...then maybe...but nobody else..." His voice trailed away, and Shepard could see the grief in his eyes as he turned back towards her, and mentally cursed herself for reopening old wounds.

"That's not everything, is it, Shepard?" Shepard turned her face away from that piercing gaze, she always forgot that Garrus' C-Sec background allowed him to read her far better than she expected. In truth she hadn't even been sure that the subject of Nahlah Butler's cowardice and betrayal had been necessary to broach. "Shepard?" Garrus' dual toned voice had a low note of resigned dread, and Shepard twitched involuntarily, hands clenching together in her lap.

" I've been in contact with Nalah Butler, she's...pregnant, near term, and..."

"Pregnant?" Garrus cut Shepard off mid-sentence, "but human gestation is...nine months?" His eyes flickered over to hers for confirmation, and Shepard nodded mutely. "That would mean that she..." Garrus slowly froze, "oh", he finished in a small, horrified voice.

"The mercs promised she would be safe, her and her husband both," Shepard added desperately, hoping to soften the blow; but it was as futile as grasping after a bullet after the gun had already been fired.

"The door codes." Garrus sounded like a dead thing, his voice hollow and lost. Shepard watched as he folded his forearms against his stomach, hunching forward as if the revelation had been a physical blow. "I gave her the door codes, so she would be safe." Shepard slid to her feet, reaching out to rest a hand against the side of Garrus' face, "I did this, Shepard, my fault...all of it, all..." Whatever else he had been planning to say was muffled as Shepard pressed her palm over his mouth, feeling the hot huff of his breath against her hand.

"No," she whispered, "no, you tried to help her, to protect them all. So don't, please...don't." Through the remaining alcohol haze, Shepard was aware that there was far more she wanted to say, but the words seemed jumbled in her mind, overlayed with the slight burn of the cerberus implants as they struggled to process the toxins in her blood. "Just...don't," trying to ignore the stricken look in his eyes, Shepard slid her palm up across the rough plating of his jaw to cup the softer hide on the underside of his fringe; and rising on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to the unyielding cartilage of Garrus' mouth.

For a long moment Garrus remained utterly still and unresponsive; but Shepard let one hand track across the familiar planes of his face, and felt him press instantly into her touch, and the tentative brush of his tongue against hers as he tried to kiss her back. It wasn't at all like kissing a human, Shepard realized, Garrus was all sharp teeth and angles, with an odd smokey-sweet taste. Her hands found the softer hide at the back of his neck, and he made an almost desperate noise as Shepard lightly ran her fingernails against the sensitive skin, marveling at the almost feverish heat of his body.

Shepard felt the rough heat of his palm as it ghosted over her cheek, talons tangling in her hair, his other hand a hot weight against the small of her back as he pulled her up against him. Shepard turned her head to nibble lightly at Garrus' undamaged mandible, smiling at the sharp gasp he gave in response; then reaching up to carefully untangle his hand from her hair, when he involuntarily tightened his grip enough to hurt. "Easy, that feels nice, just ease up a little" she murmured against his jaw.

"Sorry, sorry," Garrus' voice was oddly quavery, and Shepard was about to question him, but then that rough tongue was curling against the pulse in her neck and it was hard to think coherently, never mind formulating any kind of question.

Shepard prided herself on her ability to read the subtleties of vocal nuances and body languages, it had served her well throughout her military career, although it had taken a while to adapt to the subtle physical ques of her non-human crew members. Garrus had been a relatively easy study, and it hadn't taken her all that long to easily recognize the mandible-splayed grin that usually heralded some smug witticism, or the way he tilted his head back when he was being particularly stubborn. Had she not been still blurred with alcohol, Shepard would have immediately picked up on the almost desperate edge to Garrus' actions. The way he immediately pushed into any touch or contact, the way be buried his head in the crook of her neck, avoiding eye contact even as he slid his hands up under the fabric of her shirt, talons scratching lightly at the skin on her back.

Even the slowly dimming haze of inebriation couldn't cover the sudden, full body shiver Garrus gave as Shepard let her hand track across the heavy collarbones that joined his cowl to the protuberant keel bone on his chest, settling into the flare of one hip.

"Garrus? Hey, what?..." Shepard pulled her hands back immediately, horrified when Garrus stumbled back from her, folding his arms protectively across his midriff.

"Don't," he said hoarsely, stepping back away from her, as Shepard raised a hand to see if he was alright. "I'm...I'm sorry Shepard, I just...can't," the haunted look in his eyes, full of fear and shame, caught Shepard like a blow to the stomach.

"Ahh, dammit, I'm sorry Garrus...I should never have..."

"Its not your fault!" Garrus interrupted, "I wanted...I wanted, but I just...can't," he turned his face away, mandibles flattened to his jaw in frustration and embarrassment.

"This was a mistake." Shepards voice was cold and taught, the adrenaline surge of shock and self recrimination had chased the last remains of the nights drinking from her system; the reality of the situation settling into her mind with brutal clarity. "I had no right, no right at all," turning away so she wouldn't have to look at the confusion and hurt on Garrus' face, Shepard forced leaden legs to take her to the door. "I'm going to look into whats been happening on Omega, I'll let you know as soon as I know anything."

The door was half open before Garrus protested, " Shepard, wait! Don't go, please... I'm sorry!"

"You're sorry?" Shepard's voice sounded choked. "You're sorry? That only proves just how fucking wrong this was," the look she cast back over her shoulder was heavy with sorrow. "I'm so sorry Garrus."

"I don't understand." Garrus sounded so lost it made Shepard flinch, " I don't understand what's going on here, but I'm going with you. To Omega," he added for clarification.

"No, you aren't." The door was swinging closed when she added, "goodbye, Garrus," before it clicked shut with solemn finality.

Shepard was far enough down the hallway, that she could pretend not to hear as Garrus called her name, quickening her pace as she heard the click of his bare talons on the hallway flooring. The front doors automatically swung open in front of her, and the wind and rain slapped into her like a physical blow. A surge of bile in her throat is her only warning before the night's alcohol makes a violent reappearance. Scrubbing her mouth on her sleeve, Shepard tries to tell herself its the burning in her throat that is bringing tears to her eyes.

The rented skycar was still parked where she left it, listing crossways into several spaces, and Shepard is in the drivers seat before she realizes that Garrus is standing in the rain staring at her. He's yelling something, but it's lost in the driving rain, and the insulation of the car's interior. Shepard can see he's shivering, the torrential rain soaking instantly through the loose, sleeping clothes he had been wearing when she woke him. Remembering his endless complaints about the cold on Noveria she tries to motion him to return to the complex. "Go back!" she mouths at him, watching as he shakes his head violently, water scattering from his fringe in a glittering arc. He says something back, but Shepard cant understand, so she simply shakes her head as she rams the aircar into gear, sending it careening skyward. Desperately she pushed the rented machine to the limits of its capabilities, as if she could somehow outrun her own misplaced guilt.


	20. All in

**Bit of a point-of-view change for the next few chapters. Hopefully its not too jarring, but I needed to get Garrus to go off on his own for a while~so I couldn't really keep it from Shep's viewpoint unless she was being a serious creeper. =P**

**And a special thanks to Blausen & ElCapitan18 for all the encouragement! :)**

"Sh...Shepard?" Garrus stared in confusion at Shepard's stiff back as she hurried away from him down the hallway. "Shepard, wait!"

As Shepard disappeared around the corner, a door across the hallway cracked open, and an obviously irritated older human blinked owlishly out at him. "For fuck's sake man, some of us do like to sleep you know!" Before Garrus could formulate any kind of response, the disturbed human finished with, "if she's worth it, go after her! If she isn't, go back to bed...either way, do it quietly!" and slammed the door with stern finality.

Freezing for a moment, Garrus was far to aware of the flush of heat along the back of his neck, and felt uncomfortably like he was a child again, toeing the edge of the woven rug in his father's office while enduring one of many, seemingly endless, lectures on parental expectations. Shepard had disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall, and ignoring the fact that he was barefoot, and wearing only the light pants and vest that he slept in, he sprinted after her.

A young asari night-nurse have an undignified squeak of surprise as Garrus careened around the corner, talons skidding in the wet tracks left by Shepard's passing. Desperately snagging the wall for balance he hissed as the action pulled uncomfortably on his shoulder. Expression caught between concern and censure, the nurse reached out to steady him, but Garrus dodged past her, following Shepard out the sliding doors into the storm.

The rain hit Garrus like a solid wall, instantly plastering his thin clothing to his hide and making him shiver in the sudden chill. The driving droplets stung along the right side of his face, and Garrus realized he wasn't wearing his customary reinforced pressure bandage over the mess of damaged plating and cybernetic grafting that replaced part of his jaw. Feeling strangely exposed he raised a hand self consciously to cover the worst of the damage.

"Shepard, wait! I'm sorry!" Garrus cringed as his voice came out shrill with fear-subtonals. Spirits, if only his family could see him now: crying in the rain after a human woman.

Shepard had already climbed into the cockpit of her rented aircar. Garrus could see her mouth words at him through the rain streaked viewscreen, and a helpful subtitle popped up in his visor's matrix, provided by the advanced translation software: _'go back.'_ Garrus shook his head vehemently, ignoring the way the movement sent a fresh cascade of cold water down the back of his neck.

"You can't leave me here! Shepard, please!" Garrus wailed over the rumble of the aircar's engines, ignoring the way Shepard shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes. "I need you!" Panting in distress and agitation, Garrus watched the flash of lights as the aircar disappeared into the melee of Nos Astra's storm-tossed traffic lanes.

Back in his room, Garrus paced in frustration; caught between the high-adrenaline, instinctive fight or flight reaction that came as a natural part of his turian physiology, and the overwhelming urge to curl up in a corner and keen out his desolate frustration. He was all to aware of how nice Shepard had felt against him, the alien smoothness of her skin contrasting with the hardness of the muscles beneath. She had smelled like rain and gun oil, with a hint of sweet alcohol on her breath. With a low growl of irritation, Garrus spun and paced back across the room; _'of course he had fucked this up,_' he thought bitterly,_ 'everything he touched went to shit lately, why should this be any different?'_

Garrus had never had a human fetish. Even the asari seemed oddly malleable and unappealing; but Shepard... She had caught his eye almost immediately, she moved with the predatory grace of the women of his own race, eyes alight with the adrenaline of battle. They had been growing closer back on the original Normandy, moving slowly from comrades to friends. Although Garrus had never dared push for more, the thought of her had entertained him on more than one long night. Having her in his arms tonight had been...intoxicating, the warmth of her against him had unplated him as rapidly as if he had been some inexperienced fledge. Her hands were everywhere, seeming to find most of the places he wanted them the most without direction, her tongue slick against his; and then he had made the crucial mistake of closing his eyes.

Without that immediate visual reference, the feel of her hands started to blur, became larger, rougher, colder. He had buried his face against the dip in Shepard's neck where it met her shoulder, both to anchor himself with her scent and prevent the now-instinctive throat exposure of submission. Then she was running her dexterous human hands along his waist and hip, and it was Decker all over again on one of the days when he had engaged in the cruel game of alternating gentle, soothing touch, with unpredictable, explosive violence. It had served to keep Garrus in a state of constant fear, a jittery state of drug-enhanced terror that had nearly served to drive him completely mad.

Half expecting to hear that despised, raspy voice against his ear: "you want this, ugly? C'mon, tell me you like it." Garrus had lunged backwards from the touch, eyes snapping open to see Shepard staring at him in shock. He had just been opening his mouth to try to explain, when the look on Shepard's face had silenced him. The sadness and pity he expected, loathed, but expected~but there was something else. Disappointment? Disgust? Guilt? Garrus wasn't sure, but the hesitation cost him, and the door had shut with a startling finality.

Stopping to rest his forehead against the windowpane, Garrus stared sullenly out at the rain. Shepard didn't understand, he needed to go to Omega, needed to find out who was carrying out the executions of the gang leaders...needed to find Nalah Butler and...Shaking his head, Garrus forced his thoughts away from Nalah, her name caused a sick ball of guilt and anger to build in his chest, and he needed to think clearly for this. He gasped in a deep breath, then another, trying to remember how Lanastia had taught him to breath to calm himself.

Back when he was a part of C-Sec, Garrus had often joined his fellow officers for an after-shift drink, or a turn at the games tables. Once, during a game of human poker in which Garrus had been overly cautious, a fellow detective had finally told him to "_put up or leave the table Vakarian, its all in or nothing!_" The last time he had followed that advice, he had taken Shepard's death as a catalyst and dragged eleven good people down with him. Now was another of those moments, a choice to follow orders... or throw himself back at that hellish station, and try to make right his previous mistakes.

Reaching a decision, Garrus padded over to the comm console and keyed up the coded emergency channel Liara had left for him when she took on her new role of Shadow Broker. It wasn't unexpected for the channel to flash immediately to voice messaging, and Garrus hesitantly laid out his request, activating the code to send the message before he could stall and rethink the whole idea. Decision made, the frantic endorphin high of adrenaline began to ease, and Garrus sank to the floor, resting his back against the bedframe. He felt shaky with reaction...healing muscles protesting him headlong dash through the facility, and other parts of his anatomy protesting the abrupt end to the encounter with Shepard.

Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten, faint motes of a distant sunrise turning the raindrops silver. The metal strut of his visor was cool against the pads of his fingers as he automatically traced the engraved names. Whispering a plea to the spirits he knew must hold him responsible, Garrus watched the city slowly light up around him.

* * *

The adrenaline of the night's excitement wore off around midday. Garrus was bleary enough during warm-up that Cole, his physical therapist, eventually exiled him from the gym with the irritated instructions to either get some stims or sleep it off.

"What?!...uhh, who?" Garrus stared in bafflement at the salarian sitting on his bed. Blinking one eye to switch his visor specs to a full biometric readout, Garrus breathed a slight sigh of relief as the heart rate, body temperature and infrared views scrolled past. That at least that proved that he wasn't having some kind of weird salarian hallucination.

"Mr. Vakarian , I assume?" the salarian blinked liquid eyes at him, flicking imaginary lint off the cuff of his impeccably tailored formal wear. "My employer requested that I deliver a few items to you."

Nobody ever called Garrus 'Mr. Vakarian ', and for a second he considered asking if the salarian was perhaps lost, and had got him mixed up with his father. "Your...employer?" he questioned instead, leaning his hip against the door frame in an attempt to regain his composure.

"The Shadow Broker sends his regards," the slender alien intoned blandly, gesturing languidly to a sturdy and well filled backpack, and an expansive weapons case resting on the floor at his feet. "I think you will find everything is in order, if you have any difficulties with the merchandise, please do not hesitate to contact me. As per my employer's request, I will remain in Nos Astra for several days to provide you will any additional services you may require. My contact information is downloaded into your omni-tool" the salarian added, pacing past Garrus and out into the hallway. "Good day, Mr. Vakarian... and good luck."

"That was...creepy," Garrus muttered to himself, watching the salarian stroll around the corner and out of sight.

The backpack was heavier than expected, and Garrus flicked the closure buckles open with trepidation; he had hoped Liara would lend him the credits to grab transport to Omega, but this delivery was a surprise. The top layer in the pack proved to be nothing more sinister than a few pairs of light weave military fatigues, and the frame for a surprisingly high end omni-tool. The body armor below it was completely unexpected; lifting the pieces out, it was quickly obvious it had been custom made, and Garrus wondered how Liara had managed to commission work like this so quickly. The only explanation was that somehow she had anticipated his request...

The base was a lighter armor than he was used to, but Liara had shown the foresight that the heavy combat armors Garrus favored would put undue pressure and weight on his healing shoulder. As well as the armor mesh weave, with its imbedded biometrics and combat suite, heavier sections had been integrated throughout the chest and legs, adding protection without adding undue weight. Sliding a hand into an armored gauntlet, Garrus was unsurprised that it fit perfectly. Somehow he wasn't shocked that Liara had the intel to get bioscans detailed enough to have armor made that fit him exactly, but he cringed to think of where that particular data could have been mined from.

Tucked into a folded underweave shirt, was a small handful of credit chits, one DNA coded one had an amount generous enough to make Garrus twitch a browplate in appreciation, it would easily cover the cost of a commercial flight to Omega, and anywhere else he wanted to go. A handful of smaller, disposable chits with smaller set amounts made him grin in a flash of sharp teeth, it showed just how far Liara had come from the naive maiden she had been a few years ago. Anyone flashing a personal credit chit on Omega would find themselves thrown in an trash burner with their throat cut. The smaller amounts could be used as food money, for ammo, even for bribes, without drawing undue attention.

Hauling the weapons crate up onto the bed, Garrus stared at it for a long moment, he deliberately hadn't handled a weapon since the night the mercenaries had stormed the apartment complex on Omega. The catches seemed to resist his fingers for a while, but eventually they unlocked with a satisfying pneumatic hiss. The weapons nestled in the protective foam were obviously high end, far beyond anything Garrus could have afforded on his own. Balanced on top was a simple message, written in elegant asari cursive and underlined with enough force to crease the paper it was written on: _'be careful!'_

Running an appreciative talon along the barrel of the sniper rifle, Garrus hefted it gleefully. Muscle memory made handling the weapon second nature. That familiarity had been years in the making, Garrus could still remember endless target practice sessions with his father, the ones that had continued until he was exhausted and shaking, hardly able to even pull the trigger. Retracting the barrel and locking the rifle into its compact storage mode, Garrus tucked it back into its casing, and stared bleakly at the heavy pistol laying next to it.

Folding his hand around the grip of the pistol made Garrus shiver, and he had to force the joints in his fingers to lock until his hand stopped shaking. Raising it slowly to his shoulder, he stared down the scope, trying to sight in on a line of joining on the wall... but all he could see was the way Sidonis had stared up at him, trying to breath through the blood in his throat until his eyes had gone glazed and blank. Staring at his own hand, all he could see was Garm's massive paw forcing his arm up, blunt fingers digging into the tendons in his wrist, forcing his finger to the trigger...

A tap at the door made his hand spasm, and the pistol clattered to the floor, leaving Garrus panting in shock, a bio-query flashing from his visor stats warning of rapid heart rate.

"May I come in?" Lanastia smiled up at him from the doorway.

"Do I have a choice?" Garrus didn't even try to keep the bitterness out of voice, although he did fold his hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were still shaking.

"Not really," the diminutive asari smiled, stooping to retrieve the pistol, setting it carefully in the open case. "Nice gear you have there," she added blandly. "Although you may want to rough that armor up a bit before you get on the station, I'm sure the denizens of omega would be happy to take gear of this quality from you otherwise."

"O...Omega?" Garrus tried for an innocent grin that came out more as a grimace. He had never been a good liar.

"Oh Garrus," lanastia laughed, "I am glad you don't have to rely on your inability to dissemble! Of course I know where you are headed, and why you are going there. News reports of the gang killings on Omega are quite frequent now, and I'm not to old to know how to use the extranet."

"So you're going to stop me" Garrus stated flatly.

"This isn't a prison, child," Lanastia chastised gently, reaching up to rest a hand on his shoulder, smiling as he bristled at being referred to as a child. "I can't say I think you are ready to face that place yet, but I certainly won't stop you, if that's where you are determined to go."


	21. Memorial

Having served on a handful of turian warships during his military service, followed by time on the Normandy, Garrus was unused to the slow pace and monotony of public travel. Military vessels always had first clearance for the relays and the waiting endured by the commercial flights grated on his almost nonexistent nerves. An almost two day layover on an Alliance controlled orbital station gave Garrus a chance to rent time at a holographic firing range, forcing himself to put round after round into various computer generated targets until his hands ached with clenching the pistol grip so tightly. Despite the physical end emotional tole of the practice, by the time the call went out to board the next shuttle, his shots were steady and true and the targets no longer wore achingly familiar faces.

As the trip progressed, the shuttles got consecutively smaller, and the passengers more degenerate and desperate looking. Garrus shared the limited space on the final shuttle with a sullen asari maiden, a puffing volus who smelled inexplicably like fried onions, and a sour human girl who's constant jaw movement confused Garrus until he remembered Ashley Williams had once told him that humans enjoyed masticating flavored resins. Listening to the volus wheeze out horrendous pick-up lines to the frustrated asari got tedious after the first half hour, and Garrus finally cranked up the music files he had uploaded to his visor, relishing the throb of the powerful beat in his aural membranes as it drowned out the tedium.

There was no customs on Omega, just the usual riffraff milling around the dilapidated public docks, hoping to sideline any potentially profitable passengers, or hawking various wares in a cacophony of shrill voices. It was the smell of the place that brought Garrus up short, the familiar scent of too many people in too small a space, the thick reek from the street vendors selling an assortment of unappetizing offerings, refuse overlaid with the hot metal of overheating engines and the sour smell of old death. Not realizing that he had simply frozen in place in the walkway, Garrus jumped when the resin-chewing human female blundered into him. Turning to offer an apology, he blinked in surprise when she cut him off with a snarled suggestion to engage in an activity that was physiologically impossible for turians... humans must be considerably more flexible than Garrus had thought if they were capable of such a feat.

As he ignored the propositions from a multitude of dull-eyed prostitutes, it became apparent to Garrus that finding anyone on the sprawling station was going to be more difficult than he had originally thought. The network of informants that he and his team had coerced, convinced or bullied into aiding them would have sunk back into Omega's slums as quickly as water disappears into sand. A small bar had always been a meeting place, but its neon facade was now cracked and broken, and a batarian was loudly hawking illegal weapons modifications from behind the heat warped bar.

Garrus wasn't even sure where he was going until he stepped of the second bullet riddled, and graffiti stained tramway, and the familiar skyline and street layout hit him like a slap in the face. He had consciously meant to avoid this sector, but somehow, deep down, Garrus had known that he would have to end up here.

It hadn't changed much, the filthy walls and desperate people proving the futility of anything he had tried to accomplish. In the shadows of a nearby door, a tired asari hiked her tattered dress up her thin thighs, when she got no reaction she pulled a prepubescent child into view with her, tilting the girls face up for Garrus' approval. Feeling sick he hurried away, trying to ignore the human who sauntered over in his place. The slumping buildings were the same as he remembered them, cheaply constructed, scored with burns and gang symbols, some residences merely gaping black holes in the facades. A mixture of loiterers, street merchants and gang enforcers cluttered the streets, idling in alleys and doorways.

Garrus recognized one of the street vendors, an elderly human man who sold strings of looted electrical conduits, fuses and security terminals. For a long moment Garrus was sure the man would recognize him, he and Erash had bought enough conduit cable once to set up a basic security system...but the cloudy gaze skated over his face without even a pause or a flash of recognition. Catching a glimpse of his own visage in the reflective surface of a terminal, Garrus wasn't surprised that the vendor hadn't recognized him, there was little left of the brash, bright young vigilante who had come to Omega full of promise and bravery.

There were a few other familiar faces in the crowd, but nobody, even the hard faced Blue-suns operatives slouched on a corner recognized him. Padding through the throng, Garrus morbidly wondered how many people had been part of the screaming crowd who had cheered the local mercs on in their brutal retaliation against him and his team. Had that human woman laughed when Garm had held him down, had that muscular batarian helped throw the brutalized bodies of his friends down some abandoned eezo mineshaft? Had they mourned, even in some small way, the deaths of people who had died in an attempt to help them; or had they simply shrugged off the violence and degradation they had witnessed, and gone about eking a living from the tattered slums.

Shaking his head to clear that particular line of thinking from his mind, Garrus turned his attention to the array of merchandise, mostly stolen, that was on sale. It hadn't taken long for him to add a security hacking module to his omni-tool, first paying a few extra credits to have it fully scrubbed of its former owner's identity. A military talon knife was now tucked inside the wrist guard of his armour, the sleek, crescent blade a familiar weight against his skin. Garrus, like all turians, had carried one since his military days... the last he had seen of his it had been dwarfed in Garm's cruel hands as the krogan had used it to cut rocket shrapnel from his mangled shoulder. A street cart selling assorted foods smelled surprisingly appetizing, and Garrus bought a few skewers of some manner of spiced meat from a tired looking turian cook.

Against his better judgment, Garrus added a common narcotic stimulant to his purchase, a request so common it got little to no reaction from the vendor. The 'everglow' as it was called stung in his eyes as it absorbed into retinal tissues, a familiar irritation from missions he and his squad could never have managed without a few doses of this and a handful of stim chasers. The burn faded quickly, and Garrus could feel the mental and physical fatigue of the last few days ease.

Chewing idly on his food, Garrus passed the majority of the crowds. As he got closer to the end of this particular sector the less people he saw, and the more disrepair was evident. Where the bridge he had worked so hard to defend began, cobbled together wooden barricades had been used to blockade the street. Scrawled signs in a few different dialects warned to keep out, that the area was unstable, or as one literary vorcha had written 'stay oot-go way or dy!'

Various gang symbols had been painted on the rough prefabricated sheets of wood, although something appeared to be overlayed across the entire barricade, and when Garrus backed away to get a view of the entire thing he stopped short, blinking in surprise. The sprawling symbol was crudely done, as if the graffiti had been done in haste or anger...or both. Garrus ran his fingers across his face, even roughly done, the symbol was as familiar as his own skin; the question now was why anyone would paint his colony markings over gang symbols.

The paint was newer than the symbols beneath it, although it had been there long enough to be slightly dulled with a patina of grime, so probably about a month old, Garrus reasoned. Was it possible that Butler's traitor wife had done this? Garrus tried to imagine a pregnant, terrified woman trekking half way across the station to do what?...paint over some gang symbols as an expression of defiance, grief, guilt?

"Unlikely," Garrus muttered to himself, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed. The barricade was surprisingly sturdy, hardly even creaking as he hauled himself over the top, twisting to land lightly on his feet in the dim light of the other side.

With the exception of a couple of half grown vorcha squalling over refuse, the area behind the barriers seemed completely deserted. Walls pockmarked with shrapnel and bullet holes bore a silent testimony to the conflict that had raged there; and in places greasy slashes of crusted black marked where countless mercs had bled out. The strategic exposure of the bridge made Garrus nervous, all to aware of how easy it was to put a bullet in a target from the vantage of the balconies of the apartment complex. Keeping as low as he could, Garrus loped quickly across, following the cover provided by the rubble. Gaping holes in the street itself itself provided tattered windows into a vertiginous drop to the next sector.

A lot of Garrus' time in captivity had faded into an unclear montage, with moments of startling clarity; Lanastia had called it post traumatic memory displacement, an automatic psychological survival mechanism. Certain scents, sounds or situations could trigger a wave of memories in such excruciating detail that Garrus had morbidly wondered how a drell, with their perfect recall, would cope with the situation. Most of the time, Garrus' memories were like white noise, an almost imperceptible montage of torment in the back of his mind, so much a part of him now as to be almost unnoticeable. Here, standing on the battle scored street staring at the debris littered courtyard where the nightmare had begun, his memory had never seemed so clear.

It seemed so much smaller without the howls and cheers of the mercs leaning over the balcony, and the bone rattling roar of the gunship overhead. A shabby, filthy atrium cluttered with broken masonry and slathered in graffiti. Garrus couldn't stop himself from looking for the stains he knew would be there, the trampled, faded whorls dried to a crusted black all that remained of the friends who had died there. The earlier meal made a violent reappearance as Garrus went to his knees, bile burning in his throat as he wretched, shivering with nausea.

'Its not fair!' Garrus wanted to rage, scream out his anger like some untrained, unblooded youngling. 'They had done everything right, they had been making a difference, and this just wasn't fucking fair!' Rocking back on his haunches, Garrus fought to control his labored breathing, watching dark spots dance in his vision as he struggled to relax, ignoring the flash of distorted pain through the cybernetic implants in his jaw as he gritted his teeth. Lanastia would tell him to get off his ass and face this, to, as she would say _"deal with the now, and leave the past exactly where it is."_ Garrus strongly suspected Shepard would share similar sentiments.

Levering himself to his feet, Garrus tried to ignore the way his legs were shaking, and forced himself to pace resolutely across the courtyard and into the dilapidated apartment complex. Inside, the complex was hardly recognizable. The stairs were half crumbled, and ground alarmingly under Garrus' feet as he gingerly picked his was up the accent; anything that could have been looted had been, panels were missing from the walls, showing bare struts beneath~stripped even of the electrical wiring. Those damned planters that Sensat had insisted on dragging in were still there, although the lovingly tended plants were now little more than seared black stalks. The gunship damage was at its worst on this level, the artillery cannon had shredded everything, leaving gaping holes in nearly every surface. Water staining showed where the water mains had vented their contents down the walls and across the floor.

The blast radius from the rocket that had been the death knell of the conflict was easily recognizable, and Garrus had no difficulty in remembering the booming voice of Tarik over the gunship's loudspeakers that preceded the burning impact of searing pain as the rocket impacted. The explosive impact had thrown him backwards like a rag doll. The first thing he had seen as he wavered on the edge of consciousness had been Butler, his face pale and scared, leaning over him as he pressed a medigel soaked pressure bandage against his throat. Garrus had tried to ask what the situation was, but it just came out as a pained, wet gasp as he struggled to breath through the blood flooding his trachea and lungs. There had been yelling, cursing, the harsh rattle of gunfire, Butler had disappeared~and Garrus had drifted further from the conflict. Breathing had become more difficult, each labored gasp seemed to take too much effort, finally the muscles that allowed him to inhale simply would not respond and his eyes had drifted shut as his breath stilled. Life had reasserted itself in a wave of agony as something heavy came down on the mangled remnants of his shoulder, and his body had spasmed as an involuntary gasp forced a small amount of air back into his lungs. As his eyes had flickered hazily open, Garrus had come face to face with the leering visage of Garm, the bloodpack leader.

"Well hello Archangel," the massive krogan had leered, patting Garrus on the face with mock concern, even as he ground his boot harder against his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not going to let you die," the grin got impossibly wide, "there's a medic on the way, just for you~ see, you and I have some unfinished business."

Shaking his head, Garrus stepped past the blasted out section, somehow it was strange to think that, in a twisted way he owed Garm his life. Sure, the warlord had only dragged him back into existence to act out his grim revenge; but that didn't change the fact that he would have bled out on the floor of a dingy apartment without his interference. Shepard would have never known...And somehow after reading the documents Liara had provided, and learning the bloody details of Garm's somewhat ironic fate, it was easier to be objective of the krogan's role in his survival.

A slight flash of color in a shadowed corner caught Garrus' attention, an incongruous collection of brightly colored objects clustered against the far wall. Padding closer, Garrus unconsciously flared his mandibles in surprise as he recognized the same painted representation of his colonial markings above the odd collection. Crouching down, Garrus stared curiously: tapered wax that he recognized as human candles rested next to a small, delicately made bowl, the ashes and oil crusted inside marked it as asari memory urn. A curiously crude statue of a batarian goddess shared space with a string of turian prayer flags; and throughout there were photos.

Carefully picking up a photo, old enough to be crumbling around the edges, Garrus stared at the image of an asari matron with the young child in her arms, recognizing a young Melanis by the lavender markings around her wide, somber eyes. Settling down, Garrus scooped up a handful of sheets, recognizing a girl Sidonis and Melanis had smuggled from a brothel onto an earthbound transport, her smile was bright in the photo, a simple message _'I made it home, thank you!'_ was scrawled across the bottom. Many were like that: oddly touching messages from people they had helped. Others were more painful: a shockingly young Sidonis looking stiff and uncomfortable in a recruits uniform, Weaver, looking happier than Garrus had ever seen him, with his arms around the waist of a smiling woman.

Near the bottom a single image made Garrus' breath catch, it was slightly faded, a white fold line across the middle suggesting it had been carried for a long time. Garrus could remember the day it had been taken, during the first leave he had been given since beginning his military service; Sol was hanging over his shoulder, jade eyes bright with humor, mandibles spread in her trademark grin.

"Solana"...Garrus traced a thumbclaw over the familiar angles of his sister's face, missing her and home with a sudden sharp ache. He hadn't known how to even begin to explain the last several months to her, so he had taken the cowards way out and not even contacted her, or his parents. In the maelstrom of recovery, home had been such a distant possibility that Garrus hadn't really even missed it; but now, sitting in the ruins of his life he longed after it. Longed for the honest heat of Palaven's sun, the bright, clean light that reflected off the towering Cipritine skyline.

Biting down on the mournful keen that shivered in his throat, Garrus was disgusted with himself, spirits, how old was he to cry over being homesick! Heaving a sigh, he leaned back against the wall beside the makeshift memorial, unfolding his sniper rifle and laying it across his knees.

The narcotic he had purchased was too weak, and Garrus could feel the creeping exhaustion working its way through his limbs again. The lassitude of a too-long day asserting itself. The silence in the ruined building was almost oppressive, the only respite the distant roar of machinery from another level. Any movement stirred the jewel bright prayer flags, and Garrus focused on their languid shifting until his eyes closed and he slipped into an uneasy doze.


	22. Survival instinct

Garrus came awake with the same silent concentration that was drummed into turian military recruits from the moment they began their training. A human partner he had worked with for months in C-Sec had always baffled Garrus with the cacophony of sounds the officer could produce while dozing on a stakeout; how a race had survived when they made noises reminiscent of a gravity train when they slept was baffling.

Blinking around in the dim light, Garrus could see no immediate danger, and strained to catch the noise that had woken him. The metallic clink of a drink tube being kicked broke the silence, accompanied by a rumbling bass voice and the grating thump of footsteps. Cradling his rifle in one arm, Garrus used the other for balance as he half crawled over to the charred frame of an observation window that looked down into what had formerly been a living/kitchen area.

"There's nothing here!" a krogan stomped into view, and Garrus froze. Liara had promised! Garrus tightened his grip on his rifle, trying to stifle the convulsive way his hands had begun to shake; Liara had been wrong, Garm was alive...this whole trip had been a set-up. A trap. Again. Well this time he would go down fighting, they wouldn't take him alive. Raising his rifle with none of his usual calm grace, Garrus sighted down on the bloodpack leader...might as well take as many with him as he could.

"If this was a waste of my time I'm going to break those little brats, there wont be enough left of them to fill a heatsink." The krogan petulantly booted another piece of debris, narrowly missing the vorcha that had loped over to poke through a tangle of rusting metal in the corner.

"They say they see!" the vorcha grumbled, swinging his face, with its mindless idiot-grin, towards the krogan. "So shut mouth and help look."

Garrus' browplates twitched in shock as he waited for Garm to eviscerate the mouthy vorcha, did it have some manner of deathwish? To his surprise the expected retribution did not occur, and as the krogan grumbled something under his breath and began poking about the kitchen, Garrus forced himself to concentrate on what he could see of the krogan, instead of what he expected to see. The hulking form in its battered red armor, emblazoned on the shoulder with the bloodpack insignia, made a coil of sick dread coil in Garrus' stomach. The face was wrong for Garm, the scaly skin slightly darker and less seamed, the crest was thinner and darker, not even fully fused in front. A juvenile then. Garrus forced his hands to relax slightly on the rifle, the panic and dread easing out of his muscles as he huffed out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Turian not fit in there," the vorcha announced derisively as he watched the young krogan poke into a cupboard with his shotgun. "It too small."

Garrus couldn't help but twitch his mandibles into a smirk as the krogan leveled a furious glare at his companion. Bloodpack must really be desperate if they were recruiting idiots like this, in some small way that proved that he and his band had indeed had an effect on Omega. Garm wouldn't have even wasted the ammo to use these two morons as live target practice.

"Make yourself useful then and go check upstairs," the krogan pointed a meaty hand in the direction of the dilapidated stairway. "Its probably just another deadbeat here to throw something on that junk pile memorial up there."

"I not think so..." the vorcha was just stepping onto the third stair when his head disintegrated into a reddish mist. The massive impact of the shot flung the still spasming body over the stair rail and onto the floor with a wet thud.

The krogan stared in shock at the mess for a moment, long enough for Garrus to slip a cooled heat sink into his rifle and place the crosshairs on the young bloodpack recruit's forehead, just below the crest where the skull was at its thinnest.

Proving a sense of survival that had allowed his species to eke out a living in the harshest of conditions, the krogan pivoted to the side, then lowering his head he broke into a sprinting charge. The speed with which the krogan reacted surprised Garrus, but not as much as the direction of his charge. Instead of launching himself in the direction of the courtyard, the krogan had headed straight for the stairs leading up to Garrus' level, pounding footsteps dislodging masonry as he went. Struggling to correct for the new trajectory, Garrus leveled a shot at the charging behemoth, swearing under his breath when the round connected solidly with the krogan's hump, making him stumble but not preventing him from reaching the cover of the second floor hallway.

The bloodpack merc burst into the ruins of the upstairs room with a roar of fury, and a spray of shotgun fire. Garrus pressed his back into an alcove, feeling the kinetic impact of the dispersed rounds on hip and thigh; but the shield reading on his visor was still well in the green and Garrus reminded himself again to thank Liara again for her foresight. The krogan unloaded a few more rounds, shredding the remains of walls and rubble alike until Garrus heard the telltale whine of the heatsinks overheating in the firearm.

Assuming that his enraged adversary would take the time to reload Garrus stepped out of cover, automatically racking his rifle into its shoulder harness, and unhooking the heavy pistol from its clip as he moved. Furious and bleeding from a gaping wound in his hump, the enraged young krogan responded with bestial aggression. Dropping his overheated shotgun he wrapped a powerful hand around the edge of one of the abandoned planters, hefting the considerable bulk with a bellow, and flinging it with deadly accuracy. Expecting a more tactical attack, Garrus had no time to dodge the projectile, the force of the impact throwing him to the floor and sending the pistol skittering across the ground.

Stunned and gasping for breath Garrus struggled to rise, he was scrabbling desperately for his weapon when the charging krogan hit him like an out of control skycar. The crushing weight was horribly familiar, and he struggled futilely against the entrapment, kicking desperately to try to fend the furious merc off. What the young krogan lacked in tactical experience he more than made up for in sheer size and raw power, Garrus felt like he was flailing at a boulder.

"You're gonna pay, you little shit!" the krogan snarled as a lucky shot to the midriff made him grunt in pain.

The krogan's fist caught Garrus full in the face, making a white light explode and dance behind his eyes. Dimly he could feel himself being rolled onto his back, the krogan's bulk settling over him, knees pinning his arms at the elbow, one hand braced just below his keelbone.

_Oh spirits no, not this, not again! I can't..._

Garrus' struggles were reduced to desperate jerks against his captor, useless muscle spasms that did little more than amuse the krogan. With a guttural laugh of amusement the young merc hit his captive again, a brutal backhand that severed still healing cybernetics in Garrus' jaw with a static sizzle. Gagging on the blood that flooded his mouth, Garrus turned his face to the side, spitting a gout of navy fluid and a loosened tooth onto the floor, the movement triggering a wave of white-hot electrical agony in his head.

_Mom...Dad, Sol... Shepard..please..._

Dazed and half blind from the blood running into his eyes, Garrus tried to tuck the wounded side of his face against his shoulder, a wordless shrill keen of torment vibrating in his throat. Why had he come here? He knew how this would end... and the ingrained reactions beaten into him by Garm, Kuril, Decker and countless others reasserted itself as he arched his head back, exposing his throat in a terrible show of submission. A last desperate silent plea for mercy.

_I wont fight! I wont fight! So please...please don't..._

To the bloodpack mercenary this submission was simply an easy way out, and he closed his free hand around the exposed throat and squeezed, powerful blunt fingers compressing the crucial arteries and threatening to collapse the fragile trachea. Lungs spasming for air that would not come, Garrus jerked helplessly in the krogan's grip, darkness edging into the sides of his vision like spilled ink.

_So sorry Shepard...you'll have to do this alone, so sorry..._

The fight was draining out of Garrus like water down a drain, muscles too long starved of oxygen going limp and numb.

_Shep...ard..._

Like the afterimage on a powered down vidscreen, Shepard flickered through Garrus' dying mind, and he grasped onto his memories of her like a drowning man clings to debris in a stormy sea. The way she moved, the grace and power she displayed in combat, the way she had felt in his arms~soft and hot, the movement of smooth muscles under his hands...She had given so much, tried so hard for him...and this was how he rewarded her!? By dying in some rancid apartment complex when she needed his at her back! Better she had left him to the un-tender mercies of the Purgatory staff than this...this..disappointment.

Dredging up some last, tiny scrap of energy, Garrus twisted his head forward and sank his teeth into the krogan's wrist. Had the krogan simply kept his grip, the fight would have been over, and Garrus' resistance would have proved horribly ineffective; but the inexperienced merc relaxed his hand with a bellow of pain, jerking backwards to try and free himself. Ignoring the waves of pain the movement triggered in his jaw, Garrus bit down harder, shearing easily through the thin underarmor at the wrist joint and through the tough muscle underneath until his teeth grated on bone. Aspirating bitter krogan blood with every gasping breath, Garrus locked his jaw and hung on doggedly as the krogan battered at him with his free hand. The shockingly loud crack of the smaller bone in the merc's wrist preceded his howl of agony as he lunged backwards in a desperate attempt to get away from the crushing grip, the movement freeing one of Garrus' pinned arms.

There was no finesse in this kind of combat, none of the structure and grace of traditional sparring, none of the quick clean deaths provided by weapon based combat. This was simply a primal kill or be killed fight.

Maintaining his deathgrip on the krogan's wrist, Garrus scrabbled at his tormentor's face, talons scraping across the bony crest before digging sharply into the fleshy eye socket. The krogan froze for a shocked moment, then bucked back at the unexpected intrusion. An uncharacteristic shrill screech erupted from its mouth as Garrus tightened his grip, regrown talons shredding the delicate optical tissue until the eyeball itself burst against his palm like a overripe, viscous fruit.

Releasing the krogan's wrist as the behemoth lunged backwards, Garrus used the momentum to get his legs free, following up with a kick to the quad that made the krogan hunch over with a moan, hands still scrabbling at the remains of its eye. Desperately, before the injured krogan could retaliate, Garrus scrabbled for the dropped pistol.

"This is how it should have always ended!" Garrus' voice was a shattered rasp, but the krogan understood enough and Garrus could see the slow dawning of understanding in his remaining eye. Weaponless, the injured krogan could do little more than stare in disbelieving fury before a bullet shattered his forehead, dropping him twitching and still impossibly alive to the floor.

Garrus watched, dazed and dispassionate, as the krogan shivered in its death throes. Wavering on his feet he shakily raised the pistol, firing again and again until the krogan's last feeble pawings had ceased, and its head was little more than a smear across the tiles. The desperate adrenaline was fading and a blackness swimming in and out of Garrus' vision. The dingy room seemed oddly tilted and he realized he was sprawled out on his side now, watching the slow ooze of krogan blood through the rubble. The fact that he always seemed to be lying in blood in this particular room seemed oddly amusing, and Garrus rasped out a slightly hysterical laugh.

Somewhere there seemed to be footfalls, either that or the pounding in Garrus' head was getting worse. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to care, his throat felt tight and swollen, getting a breath was becoming more difficult and the lack of oxygen made him feel floaty and disconnected. Over his own panting for air, Garrus was sure he could hear voices... one in particular made him want to sit up and look, but all he could manage was a useless slide of one hand and a heaving, desperate gasp.

Then someone had him by the shoulders and was rolling him over, yelling something at him in an angry, desperate way. Garrus wanted to reply, wanted to tell her it was going to be fine, that he could have her back now~just like old times! But his throat seemed to be narrowing by the second, so all he could do was look up at her scared, pale face as his vision darkened, and press lightly against her gauntleted hand as she rested it on the undamaged side of his face.

"Sh...shep.." Garrus managed to gasp, wanting to tell her to stop worrying, that it was all ok, but everything was sliding into some kind of weightless darkness. He tried to fix his eyes on her beloved human face, knew she was saying something to him... but she was dissolving onto the darkness as well, and as he always had~Garrus followed her.


End file.
